Files and Fragments
by otherhawk
Summary: A collection of Man from UNCLE episode tags, short fics, and drabbles. 47th Chapter - Compared to What? - an unforseen tragedy leaves Napoleon thinking.
1. A Question of Luck or Skill

**A/N: A short episode tag to The Never Never Affair. For those who don't remember, Napoleon shot Gervaise while tied to a chair with his gun behind his back, aiming in a mirror. He looked as surprised as anyone that it worked.**

 **A/N2: Thank you for everyone who left their kind words on my previous story - you've inspired me to keep going.**

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Napoleon had returned an hour or so ago, having successfully refilled and returned Mr Waverley's humidor. He was now attempting to write up his report on the Affair and Illya, having already finished his, was watching him and considering.

"I still do not see how you managed to shoot Gervaise while you were tied to the chair," he said.

Napoleon, apparently looking for any excuse to tear himself away from his report, leaned forwards and fixed him with an intense stare. "Skill, my dear Illya. Pure skill."

"Luck," he corrected. "Pure luck."

"Are you calling your CEA a liar?" Napoleon demanded, his stern tone belied by the laughter dancing in his eyes.

"A CEA who is inherently truthful would be a very poor spy," Illya pointed out. "So, yes. I am calling you a liar."

"I don't know," Napoleon shook his head sadly. "I think that may be a disciplinary offence."

"I believe I shall take my chances," Illya said dryly. He looked at Napoleon contemplatively. "I bet you can't do it again."

"Really." Napoleon looked intrigued. "What do you bet?"

"If you make the shot, I'll write that report for you," he proposed. "If not, you'll buy me dinner," he proposed.

Napoleon looked down at the report in front of him. "I'm already half-finished this," he said. "That's hardly a fair deal."

"Alright, I'll write your report for our next assignment together," he offered. "Always assuming, of course, that neither of us end up dead or seriously injured."

"You're always so optimistic," Napoleon murmured, smiling. "Alright, I accept. We'll need a floor length mirror. And I take it you don't plan on doing this in the office?"

"What's the matter?" Illya asked innocently. "Not so sure of your skills as you thought?"

Napoleon just looked at him.

"No, perhaps you are right," he conceded ."Very well. I will go and retrieve a mirror from Del. You go and make sure one of the firing ranges is free."

"I'll find some rope as well," Napoleon agreed.

Getting a mirror was easy enough; Del very rarely asked any questions. But when he walked back into HQ, Carol at the front desk stared at the large mirror under his arm, her eyes wide.

He paused. "It is for Napoleon," he explained. "He is afraid he has spotted a grey hair."

"Oh!" She clasped her hands over her mouth in horror. "Oh, my. You'd better get to him quickly. And I swear, I won't breathe a word to anyone."

"Thank you," he said gravely as he walked away. "He is very sensitive about these matters."

When he got to the firing range, he was still smiling enough to himself that Napoleon fixed him with a look of deep suspicion. "Well?"

"Very well," he agreed. "Shall we?"

He indicated the chair and Napoleon sat, his hand obligingly behind his back."Ow," he protested, as Illya tied the rope efficiently. "Not so tight. I swear, you're more sadistic than THRUSH, sometimes."

"No," Illya said. "Merely less inclined to underestimate you. So!" Napoleon was facing the mirror, the paper target was at short range behind him and to the side. He met Napoleon's eyes in the mirror enquiringly. "Like this?"

"Like this," Napoleon confirmed. "Gun, please."

He passed the gun down and watched Napoleon fumble to get it the right way up and facing the right direction.

He shook his head, looking at the set up. "Luck," he declared.

"Skill," Napoleon disagreed, and he fired. "Ha!"

Illya turned to look. There was a distinct hole in the target, directly over the right hand. "You shot him in the hand?"

"I imagined he was pointing a gun at your head," Napoleon explained urbanely. "I shot the gun out of his hand, leaving him disarmed and incapacitated, ready for you to capture him so we can take him in for questioning."

"Oh, so I am free in this scenario you have concocted?" Illya asked.

"Free, but with a gun pointed at your head," Napoleon emphasised. "A situation which I have now rectified. No need to thank me."

Illya smiled. "Luck. Simple, luck."

"Twice?" Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Face it, Illya. This is skill."

"Two inches in any direction and you would have missed completely," he said.

"Ah, but I didn't miss," Napoleon said at once. "And now you're writing my next report for me. Now, are you interested in going double or nothing?"

"How?" he asked grumpily.

Napoleon met his eyes in the mirror. "Don't tell me you don't want to give it a try?"

He looked straight back at Napoleon. Of course he did. They shared a brief smile and Illya quickly untied Napoleon and they swapped over.

Gun clasped in his clenched hand,s he stared at the target in the mirror for a long moment, trying to gauge angles, trying to feel for the slightest draught that might be enough to throw his aim off. If he missed in the range a shot that Napoleon had made in the field, he really would never hear the end of it.

"Don't forget the mirror adds ten pounds," Napoleon said helpfully.

Illya pursed his lips and fired. Well. That was certainly a hit.

In the mirror, he saw Napoleon wince. "I'm calling foul on that one," he said.

The shot had gone directly through the target's groin.

He grinned wolfishly. "You cannot deny," he said. "The man is _certainly_ incapacitated." In fact he'd been aiming for central mass. But in this game a hit was a hit and he was no more going to confess he hadn't precisely hit his target than Napoleon was.

"Oh, most definitely," Napoleon agreed. "Remind me not to get on your bad side. And on that note," he added, resting his hands familiarly on Illya's shoulders. "If I was imagining him pointing a gun at your head, what dastardly crime were _you_ imagining that you decided to shoot him there, hmmm?"

He was saved from having to answer by the sound of the door opening. They both looked round to see Walter Lewis and Jason Corwin standing there, staring. Well, he was tired to a chair, holding a gun, while Napoleon leaned on him. This probably did invite some questions.

"What's going on?" Walter asked, going for the most obvious one.

"A new directive from Section I," Illya explained, stone-faced. "All Section II agents are now expected to be capable of taking on THRUSH with both hands tied behind their backs."

Jason started to smile. "You're joking..."

"He never jokes about operational matters," Napoleon corroborated.

Illya nodded. "We wanted to get some practice in before the assessment."

The two turned to look at the target. "You made that shot in the mirror?" Walter asked slowly.

They nodded solemnly.

Jason and Walter exchanged glances. "Right...we'll leave you to it. Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin."

"Goodnight," Napoleon called after them. He turned to Illya. "I'm not sure they believed you."

"No," he agreed. "But they're certainly going to be trying it tomorrow. And you owe me dinner."

"You owe me a report," Napoleon countered, untying him with a flourish.

He grimaced. True. "Shall we discuss the terms over drinks?"

"An excellent idea," Napoleon agreed happily.

* * *

 _UNCLE Internal Memo #206._

 _FAO All Section II Agents Across All Stations:_

 _Due to the rising costs of repairing ceiling tiles in firing ranges, and the occurrence of several injuries, all agents are hereby notified that the practice of attempting target practice while the agent has his hands tied behind his back must cease forthwith._

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 **Thanks for reading, hope you liked it!**


	2. Anywhere but here

**A/N: I've changed this story to a collection of shorts. Because I have a feeling I may be writing more of them, and I prefer to keep them somewhere tidy. Anyway, this is new fic. Hope you enjoy!**

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"I suppose," Illya said, leaning on the bars and gazing up at the sheriff's back, retreating up the stairs. "At this point, this should be seen as inevitable."

"Don't worry," Napoleon said with a confidence he didn't altogether feel. "As soon as he checks our credentials with UNCLE he'll let us go."

Illya turned to look at him. "The number you gave him is lying in little torn up pieces on the stairs."

Ah. That was going to make all this more difficult. And really, he wasn't surprised at all. "Inevitable," he agreed with a sigh.

This Affair had gone against them from the start. Their orders had been straightforward enough; locate a top THRUSH scientist, destroy the bomb he was building while recovering the plans and capturing the man himself. Nothing that should have been beyond them.

They'd arrived in the small town he was supposedly hiding in three days ago, only to be regarded with the sort of suspicion that was normally reserved for door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. Finding Dr Pembroke had been a complete coincidence, Napoleon had literally stumbled into the base via a sinkhole and they'd _both_ been captured and subjected to the usual THRUSH hospitality. Getting free had been about the only thing they'd managed to do right – the bomb was destroyed but Dr Pembroke had chosen to blow up himself along with all his notes and equipment.

Exhausted and deprived of their communicators, identification, wallets and, for some ungodly reason, shoes, they'd trudged back into town only to be greeted by the shotgun-wielding sheriff.

"I hear you boys been asking a mighty lot of questions," he'd drawled, jabbing his gun at Napoleon menacingly. "Now, you're going to come with me to the jail, or else I'm gonna have to run you in for vagrancy."

It hadn't really felt like much of a choice.

"I'm not sure how this could have gone much worse," Illya said moodily.

"Look on the bright side," Napoleon invited, settling himself down on the bench to wait. "At least we're alive."

"Back home if an agent was still alive after such a bungled operation it would be considered a further sign of his poor judgement," Illya said. "One that would quickly be corrected for him."

Napoleon glanced over at him, trying to decide whether or not he was joking. "I doubt Mr Waverley intends to go that far," he said. Although he really wasn't looking forward to giving their report. They had a long string of successes, which only made their rare failures more bitter.

"No," Illya agreed. "He does not believe in the unnecessary wasting of resources." He lay down on the bench opposite Napoleon, swinging his legs up with a groan of pain.

"It's almost tempting to just stay here," Napoleon mused.

"Let's wait and see what the food is like before we make any rash decisions," Illya said after a moment of consideration. "Do you think he's working for THRUSH?"

"No," he said. "I think he just doesn't like us very much."

"What's not to like?" Illya asked rhetorically.

"Maybe if you smiled a little more?" Napoleon suggested innocently. "You know, I can't remember the last time I was arrested."

Illya turned his head and raised an eyebrow at him. "Yesterday evening," he stated. "THRUSH, remember?"

"That's a capture, not an arrest," he protested mildly. "I was meaning a proper arrest, by legitimate law enforcement."

"Oh, well then, this doesn't count," Illya said dismissively. "We haven't been charged. And the answer to your question is two months ago. In Bonn."

"Ah. Yes." He grimaced. "Thank you for reminding me." He leaned forwards with a sudden thought. "How about the first time?" he asked.

"The first time?" Illya repeated.

"The first time you were ever arrested," he explained. "I was fifteen, and I had this great idea to 'borrow' my uncle's car and drive my friends down to the lake. We had a great day, but sadly, my uncle didn't see the funny side."

Illya smiled. "What uncle does?"

"It was worth it though," he remembered. "Sandy Jennings. Now there's a story and a half."

"Not one I wish to hear right now, Napoleon," Illya told him.

"Then you tell me," he wheedled. "The first time you were ever arrested. Go on, I shared mine."

There was a very long pause. "1943," he said at last, staring blankly up at the ceiling. "Back in Kiev. Babi Yar."

Oh, hell. It was supposed to be a silly question to pass the time. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't know." He hadn't known, but he should have thought. Illya's file had several gaps in it, mostly during the war. So many people dying or vanishing made for lousy record keeping.

Illya shrugged. "It was a very long time ago," he said, his careless tone effortlessly conveying that Napoleon's apology had been noted and accepted, and the matter was absolutely not up for discussion at present. "If you prefer, I could tell you about the time I got arrested in Cambridge on boat race night. The story starts with fifteen pints of beer and involves a tamed bear, an antique harpsichord, three policemen and a KGB colonel."

Napoleon smiled. "And is it entirely fictitious?"

"Oh, entirely," Illya assured him. "But I do tell it very well."

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They exchanged quick glances and stood as one. "I think perhaps it's going to have to wait for another time," Napoleon said, just as the sheriff reappeared, the shotgun replaced with a mug of coffee.

"I don't suppose you poured some of that for us?" Illya asked hopefully. "No, I suppose not."

"Well, I've given you boys some time to think things over," the sheriff said with a wide grin on his puffy face. "I sure hope you're ready to be honest with me. To tell you the truth, we don't like slick city-types like you poking their noses where they don't belong. You revenue men?"

"No, we're with the UNCLE," Napoleon explained, not for the first time. "That's the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I'm Napoleon Solo, and this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin."

"That's what you said before," the sheriff said, his eyes narrowed. "Only he don't sound American."

"No," Illya agreed. "I'm - "

" - he's English," Napoleon said hastily. He had a sudden inkling that this good ol' boy probably wasn't going to be too pleased at any Soviet connection.

Illya glanced sideways at him. He gave the slightest of shrugs.

"A limey, huh?" The sheriff frowned harder. "That don't sound like no limey name either."

"It's Scottish, to be precise," Illya said matter-of-factly. "From the Speyside region. Originally, we were part of the Macgregor clan, but there was a falling out in the family in the seventeenth century – an argument over some cattle. You know the sort of thing, it happens in all the best families."

"Right..." The sheriff looked like he didn't know what to make of it. Napoleon wasn't exactly certain either. "We don't care for Limeys round here either, or their fancy Yankee friends."

Napoleon smiled affably. "Well, sheriff, as it happens our business in your town is concluded, and I can assure you that if you release us, we'll be just as happy to leave as you'll be to see us go."

"Probably more so," Illya added sincerely.

The sheriff looked from one to the other, as if he was trying to figure out the trick. "I don't know that you can be trusted. I think I'm going to keep you here, till Judge Redgrave comes round. See what he makes of you. Now, that's in three days time, so I hope you boys can sit tight till then."

Expressionless, they watched him walk away.

"You think someone should tell him that what he's doing is illegal?" Napoleon asked.

"I think he makes his own laws," Illya said, sitting back on the bench and leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. "I was fully capable of inventing my own fictitious nationality, by the way. And I would have thought of one less likely to be objectionable to him."

"Like what?" Napoleon asked with interest.

"Canadian?" Illya suggested.

Napoleon shook his head with mock disappointment. "Have you forgotten the American-Canadian war of 1812? Because I can assure you, we haven't."

"Of course," Illya said dryly. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"No, the only way he'd have warmed up to you is if you'd been born within five miles of here," Napoleon said with a sigh, settling back onto the bench again. He thought they might just be here for a while. "So, do you have anything clever on you?" he asked hopefully.

"Only my brain," Illya told him.

"So that would be a 'no' then," Napoleon said. "THRUSH got all of my toys too. I think we might just be stuck here for the duration."

"Wonderful," Illya said. "And no one knows exactly where we are. If they were likely to be in a good enough mood to be looking for us, that is."

True. Mr Waverley might just feel that leaving them here was an apt punishment. "Perhaps we should think of it as a vacation?" he suggested optimistically.

"I can think of better ways of spending my vacation time," Illya said.

"Like what?" Napoleon asked with a smile. "If you could be anywhere in the world but here, where would you be?"

"At home. In my bed. Alone," Illya said shortly.

He all but rolled his eyes. "Really? You can't do any better than that?"

Illya pursed his lips consideringly. "There is a particle physics convention in Geneva that I had quite wanted to attend..."

"Come on, Illya," he protested. "A particle physics convention? Out of anywhere in the world?"

"We do not all need to share the same interests," Illya told him severely, but he could see the tease in Illya's eyes. He knew he was being provoked.

"Illya..."

"Oh, alright," Illya said. He thought for a moment. "There is a restaurant in Paris. Lutece. It's on a riverboat in the Seine. At night you can see the candlelight reflected in the water. I want to be there right now, eating bouillabasse and drinking cold vodka, while the band plays Beiderbecke."

"Now that's more like it," Napoleon said, satisfied. "You know, I might just join you."

"With a date, no doubt," Illya said with a snort of laughter.

"Oh, I'd make sure to bring one with a friend," Napoleon assured him. "Just for you, I'd even make sure she was a pretty friend."

"Thank you for your consideration," Illya said ironically. "So where would you be?"

"The French Riviera," Napoleon decided with barely a moment of thought. "In the penthouse suite of the Majestic, with a chilled bottle of champagne and a beautiful blonde. You're _not_ invited."

Illya held his hands up. "I wasn't thinking it."

"You know, perhaps we do need a vacation," Napoleon said slowly. "This Affair might have gone better if we weren't so overworked."

"Are you practising that speech to use on Mr Waverley?" Illya asked. "Because I do not think he's going to go for it."

"No," Napoleon said with a sigh. "I tell you what. When we get out of here, let's just go."

"Go?" Illya raised an eyebrow. "Go where?"

"France, apparently," Napoleon said with a shrug. "Since that part we both agree on. We can just take off. Vanish before anyone realises we're not dead." He was sure they could stay away for at least two weeks before duty called them back. They were both dog tired. A little trip away from the real world could do them both the world of good.

"You are determined to indulge in fantasy today," Illya commented.

"Yes." Napoleon let go of the idea reluctantly. "Yes. I suppose we'll just serve our time, then go back to work." He waited a beat. "So, are you going to tell me that story with the fifteen pints of beer, the tamed bear, the three policemen - "

" - the antique harpsichord and the KGB colonel?" Illya smiled. "Alright, Napoleon. Gather round..."

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading, please review!**


	3. A Little Less Than Fine

**A/N: Episode tag to 'The Ultimate Computer Affair'. Okay, maybe it's just because I've written fanfic around the topic before, but when they were discussing the plan to put Illya undercover in a prison, I couldn't help but think it sounded like an extraordinarily bad idea. And so there is fic.**

 **A/N2: Warning for mention of attempted rape...and so therefore an obvious departure from the funny. Sorry. We'll get back to it.**

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Salty still hadn't forgiven him by the time they boarded the plane. It had made dinner at the airport an awkward affair – when she'd had to talk to him at all, her words had been cold and clipped. And that was all the worse because Illya had, surprisingly, prioritised a shower over food and had then taken an inordinately long time to the point where Napoleon had even considered going to look for him, afraid of last minute THRUSH action. But then Illya had come back, clean-shaven, decidedly cleaner, dressed in a borrowed shirt that was just a little too big, and complaining bitterly about the lack of hot water in the airport shower, and Napoleon had taken a certain petty delight in telling him that since wheels up was in ten minutes he would have to skip dinner.

It was one of UNCLES's comfortable private planes, which suggested they might just be in high favour...or else the pilot had been making the journey anyway. Whatever the explanation, Napoleon wasn't complaining. No, not even when Salty took herself to the front of the plane to sleep, leaving Napoleon and Illya sitting at the table in the back, getting a head start on their reports. Illya didn't seem to be inclined to talk to him either. Their mission had been a success. He wouldn't have minded some nod towards triumphant celebrations from _someone_.

Illya vanished on him after an hour and reappeared some fifteen minutes later. His hair was damp. "This plane would benefit from a shower," he said moodily as he sat down.

Napoleon glanced at him with a frown. "You had a shower in the airport," he pointed out.

"With cold water," Illya reminded him. "And it was an unsettling green colour at best. Besides, the amount of dirt that washed off means I'm going to be feeling unclean for a week."

"It was your choice to go with filthy," Napoleon reminded him. "And apparently it didn't do anything to prevent THRUSH from recognising you _anyway._ "

"Apparently not," Illya said, his face inscrutable. He frowned slightly. "Is there food in the galley?"

"Probably," Napoleon said, stretching slightly. "I haven't checked."

Illya glared balefully up the plane to the door that led to the extremely small galley then sighed and pushed himself deeper into his seat, apparently figuring it wasn't worth it.

"Why did you say that to Salty?" he asked. It wasn't like Illya to so blatantly sabotage him. Normally he regarded Napoleon's pursuits with, if not tolerance at least resignation. Illya had hardly had a chance to talk to her himself, so it was very unlikely to be a question of jealousy or direct competition. Besides, she wasn't Illya's type. And she had risked everything to leave the package in the prison for him, so it surely couldn't be dislike of Salty herself. So really, that only left it being a problem with Napoleon, and he wasn't altogether certain what he was supposed to have done or not done.

"You need to get another hobby," Illya told him.

"Well, I'd hardly call it a hobby," he said mildly.

"Oh, really?" Illya raised an eyebrow. "And what would you call it then? A vocation?"

"She's an interesting girl who's very beautiful with a passion for prison reform, and I'd like to get to know her better, that's all," he said.

"Mmm." Illya's face was giving nothing away. And that only stirred the worry growing in his heart. Yes, Illya was generally considered to be inscrutable, but Napoleon had been working with him for a long time and he was used to reading each micro-expression with ease. Right now he was getting nothing. They were safe and well, a mile up in the air in an UNCLE plane and heading back to New York, and Illya was just as tense and guarded as if they were standing in the middle of THRUSH central.

He sighed and took the unusual step of asking the direct question. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Illya said predictably.

"If there's something I've done..." Napoleon persisted.

"Not everything is about you," Illya said, effectively shutting him down. He turned his face towards the window. "I'm tired now, Napoleon. I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me up when we begin our descent."

"Alright," Napoleon said, leaning back and watching his partner closely, surprised to see that Illya actually fell asleep almost immediately. Huh. He'd thought that was just a line to avoid further questioning. Although Illya had specifically said that he was tired and hungry. Spending several days in a foreign prison would probably do that to you. Oh, it was nothing he wouldn't expect Illya to be able to deal with, but it might explain the irritability...as might the fact that THRUSH had managed to play him... _them_...so successfully. He sighed; suddenly their petty bickering didn't seem so fun. He'd let Illya sleep for an hour or so, then he'd go and make him some food and wake him up to eat.

He still felt like there was something he was missing.

Illya shifted slightly in his seat and gave a soft hiss of pain as his shoulder came in contact with the back of the chair. He moved immediately and his shirt slid slightly, giving Napoleon a glimpse of the massive purple bruise above his collar bone.

Damn it. Illya had specifically said he wasn't hurt. Instinctively he leaned over, trying to get a better view, his hand outstretched.

Illya's eyes snapped open and his hand lashed out, gripping Napoleon's wrist, the pressure a clear warning he could snap it at any moment.

He froze instantly, knowing that his partner wasn't quite seeing him. "Illya," he called softly.

Illya blinked and then frowned slightly, his gaze flickering from Napoleon's face to his hand. "Napoleon, I am sorry," he said, releasing him immediately.

"You were expecting someone else?" he asked lightly.

He didn't get a direct answer. Except he did. "The last four days have not been pleasant," Illya said.

"THRUSH?" he asked with a frown, because yes, THRUSH had evidently known Illya was an UNCLE agent, but since their plan had been to let him escape thinking he'd succeeded, he'd assumed they had left him alone. "I saw the bruise on your shoulder."

"Mmm." Illya reached up, rubbing at it absently. "No." He hesitated for a long moment and then looked at Napoleon with a dark smile. "Some of my fellow inmates decided they wanted to get to know me better."

"Oh." His eyes widened. He hadn't thought...he looked at Illya for a long moment and winced internally. Yes, he looked at Illya and knew exactly what his partner was capable of, but that wasn't what other people saw. He was small and slight – the build of a gymnast – and the blond hair and blue eyes would make him stand out as something exotic. For a certain type of animal that probably made him a tempting target.

Carefully he unclenched his jaw and relaxed his fists. "Were you hurt?" he asked with soft urgency.

"Please, Napoleon." Illya gave a savage smile. "Three broken arms, two fractured jaws, a broken nose, an assortment of broken ribs and a perforated ear drum."

He looked at Illya steadily. "That didn't quite answer my question, Tovarisch." If Illya wouldn't give him a direct answer, he would have no choice but to report this straight to medical.

Something in his face must have been enough to look convincing. "I'm fine," Illya said. "The worst I had to suffer was a lot of unwelcome groping and a man with extremely bad breath licking the back of my neck. Most of the injuries I inflicted the first night. By the fourth they had learned to keep their distance."

He didn't doubt the sincerity of Illya's words and the relief was immense. But at the same time, for one of them to be in a position to lick Illya's neck, that suggested that the fight had been a lot closer than Illya was making it sound. "I'm sorry," he said. "That should never have happened." They should have sent another agent. Maybe Chris Gibbs who'd played linebacker for Notre Dame and could probably pass as a tank if he really wanted to...but of course, Chris would have followed Napoleon's order to leave, meaning that not only would he and Salty be dead but the supercomputer would have gone operational while UNCLE would have been convinced it was destroyed.

"Really, Napoleon, it was no more than I was expecting," Illya said, on the very edge of sounding dismissive. "Why do you think I went to so much effort to look unappealing?"

He'd assumed that had been to throw THRUSH off the scent, so to speak. He seemed to have missed a lot. "You know you don't have to be fine."

"I _am_ fine," Illya insisted shortly.

Silently, Napoleon held up his hand and pulled up his shirt sleeve, revealing the rapidly-growing circle of bruising. "A little less than 'fine', perhaps?" he suggested gently.

Illya's lips quirked wryly. "I've been sleeping with one eye open," he admitted. "I suppose I hadn't quite adjusted yet." He leaned forwards, his hands clasped tight around the arm rests. "Has it occurred to you that THRUSH may have found me out because I fought off my attackers? Someone without my training would be unlikely to have been so successful, or so brutal. I fell flat on my head, if they had no suspicions before, they would have after that."

"You didn't have a choice," Napoleon pointed out.

"I could have fought a little less," Illya said in a low voice.

"No," Napoleon said evenly. "You couldn't."

"I put my _dignity_ before the mission," Illya said disgustedly.

"Not just your dignity," Napoleon argued quickly. That wasn't what it was about. That wasn't even _close_ to what it was about.

But Illya was shaking his head. "If I hadn't - " he began, and Napoleon wasn't going to listen to it anymore.

" - UNCLE asks a lot of its agents," he said pointedly. "The day it asks us to lie down and submit to rape I'll hand in my badge and gun."

Illya didn't say anything. But the stubbornness was written all over his face, even though Napoleon knew he couldn't have acted any differently.

He sighed. "You know, THRUSH knew your name," he said. "They probably wouldn't have known that if they'd just figured out you were _an_ agent. I think someone recognised you. Face it; you're famous."

"That is of small comfort," Illya said dryly, but really, he did look faintly happier.

Napoleon reached out and touched his hand lightly. Illya gave a very small smile and they sat together in comfortable silence for a long moment.

"Are you still hungry?" Napoleon asked at last.

"Ravenous," Illya said fervently.

He laughed slightly. "I'll get you something," he said.

Illya looked at him. "You don't need to treat me like I'm made of crockery," he warned. "I am quite capable of looking after myself."

"Porcelain," Napoleon corrected. "Or possibly china. Not crockery. And I know that. But that's the second idiom you've missed in five minutes."

"And how is your Russian coming along?" Illya asked dryly.

"Da, Tovarisch," he said with a grin, standing up and heading to the galley. He heard Illya laughing softly behind him.

The galley was indeed fully stocked, and he quickly made a sandwich and grabbed a couple of miniatures out of the minibar. Salty was watching him sleepily as he stepped back into the corridor. "Napoleon," she said with a hesitant smile. "I've been thinking about us. I was wondering if maybe you might want to have dinner with me tonight in New York?"

Normally the boldness of the invitation would be more than enough to entice him; he liked a woman who took the initiative. But right now, he had more important things on his mind. "I'm sorry," he said steadily, carefully not looking towards the back of the plane, towards Illya, not willing to give her even the smallest hint of what might be wrong. "I'm afraid I'm going to be very busy for the next few days. I'll take a raincheck though."

"Oh." She looked disappointed and a little stung by the rejection. "Oh, that's alright. Don't worry about it. I'd hate to get in the way of your social life." She sounded stiff and formal – hurt, rather than angry, and he sighed to himself. He didn't like being cast as the villain, but there was no real way around it. Illya needed him.

Ahhh... He sighed in sudden realisation. That was why Illya had sabotaged his flirtation. Because it would have been completely impossible for him to simply say that he needed his friend.

"I'm sorry," he said with an apologetic smile, and he walked away.

Illya looked up at him. "Has she forgiven you?"

"I think so," Napoleon said, sitting down and placing the sandwich onto the table in front of Illya. "Here you go. Turkey, pickle and potato chips. To cater to your distinctly proletarian tastes."

"Thank you, Napoleon," Illya said warmly.

"And..." He produced the bottle with a flourish.

"Stolichnaya!" Illya exclaimed. "When did they start putting that in the minibar?"

"I had a word with Emma in procurement," he said with a smile. And Stephanie in accounting, Lorraine in distribution and Tricia in transport. It had taken a concerted effort to get vodka stocked on all UNCLE planes, but it was absolutely worth it, seeing the look on Illya's face right now. There was far less tension there, and the shadows beneath his eyes had softened. "You know, we've both got some vacation days coming. I think this would be a good time to take them. We could head out to the mountains. Go skiing, maybe?" He didn't exactly intend to divulge the contents of this conversation to Mr Waverley, but at the same time he was going to make it clear in his report that this mission had not been easy. Illya needed a few days, and Napoleon needed to keep an eye on him. That was the truth.

"That sounds good," Illya said, his smile tired but happy.

Napoleon watched him carefully. He wasn't quite fine. But he would be.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, please review - I'd like to know what you think.**


	4. AWOL

**A/N: Episode tag to the Terbuf affair. Because I watched that one and when they suggested sending a telegram to Mr Waverley to let him know they weren't coming back on time I was left saying "Guys, I love you dearly, and I understand that Leo G Carroll isn't appearing in this episode, but I still think this is the worst idea you've ever come up with. Yes, worse than chasing cats." Ahem. Or words to that effect. And then I wanted to know what the hell Mr Waverley said.**

* * *

Being Mr Waverley's personal secretary was a very prestigious job, one that Sophie Winters took great pride in performing to the very best of her considerable abilities. It was also a job that carried some heavy responsibilities; even besides the obvious ones. For one thing, she was one of the few secretaries who carried a gun and had been extensively trained to use it. She hadn't had to fire it in Mr Waverley's defence – yet – but she had absolutely no doubt that she could, and would if she had to. For another thing, she had to hold herself above the general spreading of office gossip – something which was particularly difficult when she walked into the office on Tuesday morning and saw a bunch of the younger girls gathered around Linda from communications.

"Alright, what's going on here?" she asked briskly. "We all have work to do, break it up."

"Oh, Miss Winters!" Linda exclaimed, flustered. "I was just...this telegram came in for Mr Waverley. I wasn't sure what to do."

A telegram? She raised an eyebrow. That certainly was unusual. Most outside correspondence for Mr Waverley came through official channels, and obviously information from UNCLE agents came through the relays. "Who is it from?" she asked.

"Napoleon and Illya..." Janice said eagerly, and blushed. "Oh, or rather I mean, Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin."

"Yes, I know who they are," she said dryly. Maybe not as well as some of these girls knew them, Mr Solo especially, but she _did_ know their first names after all. She wasn't as old as all _that._ "Are you sure? Why wouldn't they use the overseas relay?"

There was a short pause and the girls looked at each other. "Well...maybe you'd better read it for yourself," Linda said slowly and handed it over.

Lips pursed, Sophie looked down at it.

PERSONAL ATTENTION MR WAVERLEY (STOP) RETURN DELAYED (STOP) NS ENCOUNTERED OLD FRIEND REQUIRES ASSISTANCE (STOP) POSSIBLE GOVERNMENT CORRUPTION TERBUF (STOP) APOLOGIES (STOP) IK

"Oh," she said blankly. Oh, Mr Waverley wasn't going to like this at all. "I had best go in to see him immediately. And you had better all return to work."

She took the telegram and walked briskly to Mr Waverley's office.

He looked up as she came in. "Ah, Miss Winters, there you are," he said with a slight smile. "I've been looking over the reports Mr Cahill sent from Tunisia. I think we need to send someone out to investigate as soon as possible. Mr Solo and Kuryakin are due back from their vacation tomorrow, are they not? Have communications order them to report directly to Tunis from Rome instead of returning to New York."

She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid they're not coming back, sir," she said, trying to sound as smooth as she could.

"Not coming back?" he repeated, his brow furrowed. "What the devil do you mean, Miss Winters?"

"We've received this telegram, sir," she said, passing it over.

He took it and read it carefully. Then he reread it a couple of times while she stood awkwardly by. His expression didn't noticeably change "Yes," he said grimly. "I see."

"Do you think it's legitimate?" she asked apprehensively. "It did have the usual codewords in the address. But I can't understand why Mr Kuryakin wouldn't use the overseas relay to report in."

Mr Waverley gave a small snort. "Oh, I can understand that. If he had reported in to me directly, I could have ordered them to return immediately. This way, it's a fait accompli, as it were. And as for the legitimacy, I think we can be confident enough of that. The wording of this is remarkably curt. If this were a THRUSH deception, I doubt they would be as eager to avoid paying for extra verbage as our Mr Kuryakin evidently is."

"Yes sir," she said unhappily.

"No, this is genuine enough, I should say," Mr Waverley said. "It appears our number 1 and 2 Section II agents have gone AWOL. This is really _most_ inconvenient."

Sophie had worked for Mr Waverley for long enough to understand that when he said 'inconvenient', he meant 'I am unspeakably cross'. She was also well aware that he was quietly very attached to his Section II agents. He never said a thing, but whenever one was missing or in danger he always smoked far more than usual. And Napoleon and Illya were always sent into the worst danger. "I'm sure they wouldn't have gone unless they thought it was important," she said.

"No doubt," Mr Waverley agreed. "I look forward to reading their reports when they return." He made it sound like a threat. "And let's keep an eye on the situation in Terbuf. If Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin are involved, I have no doubt something significant is going to happen."

* * *

It was five days later that Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin strolled into headquarters as though they didn't have a care in the world. Sophie happened to be in the atrium when they came in.

"Good morning, Susie," Napoleon said, leaning in close to have his badge pinned on.

"Good morning, Napoleon," she said sunnily. "Did you have a nice vacation?"

"Ah, it had its moments," Napoleon smiled. "Illya got to jump out of a tree like Errol Flynn."

"It was very satisfying," Illya said, deadpan.

Sophie managed to hide her smile behind a stack of papers as she reached for the intercom. "Mr Waverley, Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin are back," she said.

"I see," he said. "Tell them to come to my office just as soon as it's convenient for them."

She turned round to see Napoleon and Ilya looking at her with matching pained expressions. "Mr Waverley would like to see you straight away," she translated.

"I see," Illya said grimly.

"I think he got your telegram," Napoleon murmured directly into his ear. "And I don't think he appreciated it very much."

"No," she told them tartly. "He didn't."

They exchanged a long look, which was doubtless full of meaning, and then Napoleon extended a hand towards the office. "After you."

"Thank you," Illya said ironically.

Once they were gone, Susie looked at Sophie with an expression of deep set betrayal.

Well, really. Mr Waverley was going to find out eventually.

* * *

The door to Mr Waverley's office remained resolutely closed for the remainder of the morning. Despite her curiosity, Sophie couldn't hear a word that was said. There were no raised voices, not that she would have expected there to be. Mr Waverley was hardly the sort of man who required to raise his voice in order to discipline his subordinates, and Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin were hardly likely to argue with whatever was being said. Whatever it was, they would certainly have deserved it, taking unauthorised time off like that.

Eventually, the door opened, and she busied herself shuffling the papers on her desk as Napoleon and Illya strolled out.

"It could be worse," Napoleon said.

"Yes," Illya agreed. "We could be dead."

They stopped at her desk and she looked up at them expectantly. "Your assignments?"

"Mr Solo is off on a courier assignment to northern Finland," Illya said.

"And Mr Kuryakin is going undercover on a steamship in the Persian Gulf," Napoleon said. "As a cabin boy."

"A stoker's mate," Illya corrected.

"There's hardly a difference," Napoleon said.

Illya looked at him. "I hope you get frostbite where it matters."

"Well, perhaps that will remind both of you that this is a serious organisation, and not a holiday camp," Sophie told them as she passed up the relevant files. "Mr Waverley was really _very_ upset with you."

Napoleon smiled charmingly at her and despite herself, she felt herself blush. "Rest assured, we've learned our lesson. Or at least, I have. Mr Kuryakin tends to be more stubborn."

Illya shook his head slowly. "I just followed you. Mind you, that is normally my first mistake."

They nodded their farewells at her and walked towards the door, still lightly arguing.

She shook her head. So young, so brave, so immortal. "Be careful," she called out after them, and Napoleon turned and smiled, and Illya nodded again, and she went back to her work, shaking her head some more.

After all. She wouldn't want Mr Waverley to be any more upset.


	5. The Next Morning

**A/N: Short, silly, and surprisingly meander-y for less than four pages. It's what I was in the mood for.**

* * *

Napoleon thanked Sergeant Rogers and wasted a few more minutes beautifully flirting with the very pretty receptionist, before eventually sauntering down into the cell block, mug of coffee in hand. He heard the snoring long before he was down the stairs and he grinned to himself in anticipation. This should provide days of amusement, at the very least.

The snoring was coming from Dr Pavel Bekhterev who was lying on the bottom bunk, mouth open and drooling, shirt missing enough buttons to reveal his very hairy belly. Illya was on the very edge of the top bunk, lying on his side, his legs dangling. Surprisingly, there was an empty bottle of vodka lying in the corner of the cell. Apparently when faced with persuading the creme de la creme of the Soviet intelligentsia to surrender their vodka, the Apple Creek police department had simply decided to give up. Who could blame them?

Napoleon grinned to himself again and tried for three whole virtuous seconds to resist temptation. Then he banged the mug off the iron bars as loudly as he could. "Morning, tovarisch!" he said loudly. "Rise and shine!"

The effect was dramatic and instantaneous; Illya jerked up, automatically reaching for his empty shoulder holster, before losing his balance completely and crashing off the bunk with a complete absence of his usual grace. For a long moment he just lay on the floor. Then he groaned loudly and put his hands up to cover his head. "I hate you, Napoleon," he said with feeling. "I hate you and everything you stand for."

"Feeling a little delicate this morning, are we?" Napoleon asked loudly, his voice oozing with sympathy. "That's certainly no way to talk to the man who was hauled from his very warm, very comfortable bed to come and get you and your fellow countryman out of jail."

"Jail?" Illya lifted his arm from over his eyes and cautiously looked round. "Ah."

"Exactly," Napoleon agreed cheerfully. "Apparently no matter how grateful they might be, the citizens of Apple Creek don't look kindly on drunken displays of pyrotechnics. You want to tell me why you were exploding bottles down by the riverbank?"

Illya craned his head round to look at him. "Because the river wasn't frozen," he said, like it was obvious.

"Obviously," Napoleon nodded, mentally revising exactly where Illya was currently falling on the scale of hungover to still-drunk. "I should have thought of that."

"We should, before we went all the way down there," Illya said, matter-of-factly. "Is Pavel still asleep?"

"By the sound of that snoring," Napoleon said with a grimace. "I would have thought we would have woke him up by now."

Illya shook his head. "He slept through our first nuclear attack drill," he revealed. "We used to say that if the bombs did fall, he'd sleep through that too."

"Uh huh." They both gazed at the slumbering scientist for a moment. He was an old college classmate of Illya's, and they'd gone on to serve their tour in the navy together. And when Illya had been recruited by the KGB, Bekhterev had gone back to the academic life, and a successful career in research. So it hadn't been a surprise to Napoleon that when he'd taken Carla for a date, Illya had elected to get caught up with his old, and very recently-rescued-from-THRUSH friend. This, though. From his usually highly-controlled partner, this was a surprise. "So, I guess you had a more exciting night than me."

"Hmm." Very slowly, Illya managed to stand up, still swaying slightly. "Do I take it then, that you were untimely hauled from your very comfortable, very warm and very _empty_ bed?"

"No comment," he said easily, still smiling. Carla had been fun to talk to and fun to dance with and the fact that she hadn't wanted any more than that had in no way stopped him enjoying the evening. "I didn't end up getting arrested though. So what was with the bottles?"

"In the middle of winter, we used to go down to Mt'k'vari river and set up huge domino chains of exploding bottles with the leftover supplies from the university lab," Illya started to explain.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "And by 'leftover' you mean...?"

"Redistributed," Illya offered.

"Stolen," Napoleon corrected. "Go on."

"I told him that with what I know now, and the new explosives available, it would be possible to make far more complicated patterns with far less material." He looked vaguely injured. "He didn't believe me."

Napoleon sighed. "And just how far into the vodka were you when you decided you needed to prove him wrong?"

Illya said nothing, and he said it mulishly.

"You know," Napoleon said, shaking his head. "I hear a lot of politicians on the radio trying to tell me that Russia is full of madmen. And every now and then I think – _they have no idea._ "

Illya glanced back at Bekhterev for a moment and then, with what seemed like a ludicrous amount of effort, hauled himself to his feet and walked up the cell door, leaning against the bars just to the left of Napoleon. "His wife died last year," he said softly, still looking back at his friend. "I knew her, she went to medical school in Tbilisi while we were there. She was very lovely, Napoleon. And the single most kind-hearted person I ever met."

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice equally soft.

"I am as well," Illya said with a sigh. "Pavel didn't have any way of contacting me for the funeral. I would have gone, if I could." His voice was filled with regret. "But then, July last year, we would have been in Brazil, on the trail of Du Becke. I would not have been able to go even if I had got the message."

"And so vodka and explosives," he said, with growing understanding.

Illya tilted his head back, and it had to be the hangover that made him look so unusually vulnerable. "I have never been good at friends."

"Speaking as your friend, I disagree," Napoleon said. He sighed and passed his mug of coffee through the bars. "Here."

Illya didn't even hesitate before draining it.

"I suppose that explains why he was working on the Daedalus project," Napoleon added contemplatively. It had been a slight mystery, why a man with a promising career in the USSR would give it up to go and work on an international energy project, generally derided as being more of a political trophy piece than anything feasible. He'd wondered if it might be a step towards defection, although Illya had sworn that Bekhterev never would. But losing a wife could drive a man to any extreme. Taking a job on the other side of the world seemed reasonable.

"I told you he was loyal," Illya pointed out.

"Yes," he agreed. "You did."

Illya stared into his mug morosely. "So," he said. "When you were hauled out of bed this morning...who did the hauling?"

"What you mean to ask," Napoleon smiled. "Is did the nice Sergeant Rogers contact me directly to cut you loose, or did he do what he's supposed to do, go through official channels and let UNCLE know that one of their agents has been arrested for being drunk, disorderly and pyromaniacal."

"I don't think that's a word," Illya said, squinting. "And if it were, it would refer to fire starting."

"I stand corrected," Napoleon said amiably, and waited.

Illya stared at him for a long moment. "Well?"

"He called me directly," Napoleon confirmed. "You're in the clear. Which is just as well, I really don't think Mr Waverley would see the humour in this situation."

"Unlike you," Illya said. "Incidentally, I can't help noticing that you are taking your time over the actual getting-me-out-of-jail, part."

He shrugged. "This rescue is a work in progress," he said, before finally opening the cell door. "Why don't you wake up sleeping beauty over there? We can stop for breakfast in the diner before heading back to New York. You know, I'm in the mood for something really greasy. Maybe fried eggs, or that properly fatty bacon, or maybe those smoked fish with the heads still on..."

Illya glared at him. "I stand by my earlier statement," he said. "I really do hate you."

He waited until Illya was halfway across the room before casually adding. "And after I went to the effort of making sure your bail money appeared on my expense account.."

"You didn't!" Illya said, pirouetting so fast Napoleon felt like applauding. The expression of shock and alarm on his face was really something. "But that means Mr Waverley will see - "

" - well, I'm sorry," he cut in. "But I didn't have any other choice. Pay day isn't for another week, remember? I'm sure you can think of some kind of explanation. You could always tell him that the river wasn't frozen."

Illya muttered something dark and probably untranslatable under his breath as he shook Bekhterev's arm.

Napoleon smiled beatifically. At some point, before they arrived back home, he would get around to telling Illya that in the circumstances, Sergeant Rogers had been happy to take a post dated cheque. But right now, he would just continue to enjoy the moment.


	6. The start of a beautiful partnership

**A/N: Not actually the start, but very near it. This is pre-series, about six weeks after they've met.**

* * *

 _The artillery seemed to be coming from all around them, a constant barrage of deafening explosions. He didn't know if this was theirs or the Koreans. Perhaps it was both. At any rate, it didn't really matter, if they didn't get clear soon, they'd be dead either way._

 _A shell hit the ground just a little further up the hill and the dirt and rocks were thrown back, knocking Napoleon off his feet. He patted himself down quickly, not even certain anymore if he'd been hit._

 _Ross grabbed his arm and dragged him up. "We have to get back to our own lines," he yelled in Napoleon's ear, the only way they had any hope of being heard amidst all the noise._

 _He shook his head. "No," he shouted back. "It's too far and we'll be too exposed. We need to find some sort of shelter and wait until the bombardment shifts."_

" _Are you crazy?" Ross demanded. "This whole area is crawling with commies. We have to make our way back."_

" _There's a cave on the other side of this hill," Napoleon said, remembering the maps he'd studied two days ago, when they'd first been sent on this little scouting trip. "If we can just reach it we can - "_

 _Another explosion, this one even closer, tore them apart and sent him to the ground again and for a second everything went white. When his vision cleared he sat up, struggling to peer through the smoke and the fog. "Ross?" he called out loudly, crawling forwards. "Ross!" "_

 _There was no answer. The mud was everywhere. It was like he'd been swallowed up by the ground._

" _Ross!"_

"It's thunder." Someone's hand was on his shoulder. He reached for his gun, but his opponent was too quick, grabbing his wrist, so automatically he lunged up, hoping to catch his opponent by surprise, but the man grabbed his other arm and they both crashed to the ground, him desperately wrestling for the upper hand.

"Napoleon, this is really most undignified," Illya told him dryly.

Oh. He blinked. An explosion sounded somewhere close at hand and he cocked his head. "It's thunder," he agreed, slowly standing up as Illya released him. "Sorry."

He stood awkwardly, looking round the hotel room. The Empty Hospital Affair had ended last night – successfully – but they hadn't been able to get a flight out of Costa Rica until morning. And, by the looks of the sky, there was still a few more hours of night to go.

This wasn't exactly the impression he'd been looking to give, he acknowledged with a sigh. Supposedly he had been partnered with Illya for the duration, but the reality was, this was about evaluation. As CEA he had taken on several 'partners' – he preferred to work alone, but working with new agents for a few weeks gave him the perfect opportunity to get to know them, to build trust and to understand their particular skill sets. And then, he'd find some innocuous reason to dissolve the partnership and file a recommendation for what agent they _should_ be partnered with. Mr Waverly would be quietly disapproving, but ultimately he had to understand that Napoleon neither _wanted_ nor _needed_ a partner.

Of course, that whole process normally took less than a month. And he and Illya had been working together for six weeks now. That was something he couldn't quite explain.

At any rate, attacking another agent after a nightmare was hardly likely to instil confidence.

He smoothed down the collar of his pyjama shirt. "Sorry," he said again. "I'm not sure touching me was your best plan here."

"I was fully alive to the likely consequences," Illya said with a dismissive shrug. "I thought you would probably appreciate being woken."

Truthfully, he did. Some things no one should have to live through more than once. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you."

Illya looked at him consideringly for a long moment then nodded. "It's no more than you would have done for me," he said carefully. "Had you woken up half an hour ago." He glanced meaningfully over to the window. There was half a glass of red wine lying on the windowsill, as though someone had been sitting there, drinking and watching the storm.

Ah. He supposed he wasn't the only one who had nightmares. And Illya's quiet admission somehow had the effect of making him feel better. "Is that the bottle the Contessa gave us?" he asked. "I think that was intended for me."

"From each according to his ability to each according to his need," Illya said, absolutely seriously, pouring him a glass.

Napoleon gave him a look. "Karl Marx," he said, correctly attributing the quote.

Illya flashed him a bright smile.

"Is that the line you used on Hewitt?" he asked, amused. "Before he started screaming about seeing Bolsheviks under his bed?"

"What he sees under his bed is his own affair," Illya said primly. "I had nothing to do with it."

"It wasn't meant litera..." Napoleon started to say, before giving up and shaking his head. "Ah, never mind." Hewitt had been one of the loudest voices against letting a Russian anywhere near HQ. The fact that he had ended up spewing out a profanity-ridden anti-soviet diatribe after spending half an hour alone with Illya, had been strong evidence that much of the negative sentiment had been nothing more than prejudice and paranoia. Oh, Napoleon was absolutely certain he'd been strongly provoked, but the fact was, you couldn't taunt someone into displaying that kind of bigotry unless there had already been something very ugly lurking underneath. "You know, Mr Waverly sent him off to the Falkland Isles to cool down. I think he's going to be there for a while."

"I have heard it's very nice there," Illya said. "Provided one likes penguins."

Napoleon smiled. "Well who _doesn't_ like penguins?" he asked, drinking the wine. Thunder crashed loudly, sounding very close at hand, and they both glanced towards the window. Strange how a sound could be so terrifying when one was asleep and so inconsequential otherwise. Really, it sounded nothing like the artillery of his dreams. He turned to look at Illya, his eyes narrowed. "You're not afraid of thunder."

"No," Illya agreed briefly.

He met Illya's eyes, somehow understanding that they shared the same association, if not the same nightmare. He'd read Illya's file; he knew the other agent hadn't served in a war...but that didn't mean he hadn't lived through one. "Kiev?" he asked quietly.

Illya just looked at him. "Korea?"

"Mmm." He nodded to himself and wandered over to the window, looking out at the city, just in time to see lightning flashing across the sky. He gave a low whistle. "It's beautiful."

"As long as it doesn't hit you," Illya commented wryly.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You often worry about being struck by lightning?"

"Around six thousand people a year die from lightning strikes each year," Illya said seriously. "I doubt they are busy admiring the beauty."

"Perhaps that's what they were doing when they got hit," he suggested, gesturing out the window with his glass. "Admiring the view."

"Which is why it's always important to stay focused," Illya said. "You know, the fact that you haven't got rid of me yet is causing a certain amount of talk?"

Yes. He was aware of that. But he raised his eyebrows innocently. "Got rid of you?"

"Oh, yes." Illya looked at him intently. "The word around the office is that your commitment issues extend far beyond the bedroom."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," he protested mildly.

"Apparently I have already lasted two assignments longer than any of your previous partners," Illya went on, ignoring him. "The general consensus appears to be that you are concerned that I may be smuggling UNCLE secrets back to my government."

His lips thinned; he'd heard that too. Apparently no one thought that he might simply be enjoying working with Illya. ( _Was that what was going on here?_ ) "I'm sure no one is saying that to your face," he said. At least, he very much hoped no one was. That would be a whole different problem.

"I would not be much of a spy if I wasn't aware what people were saying about me behind my back," Illya pointed out.

"True," he conceded. "Which does give rise to the implication that all the people who let you catch them talking behind your back are poor spies."

"At least one of them was a cook," Illya said with a shrug.

Well then. He would be having a few words about support staff gossiping about operational matters. "I've heard similar rumours," he said slowly. "I've been shutting them down where I can." Which had doubtless led to even more rumours.

Illya nodded. " _Are_ you concerned that I am passing secrets to my government?" His voice was flat as if he wasn't expecting anything.

"No," Napoleon said, without the smallest shred of hesitation. "You worked in the English office for a year without any mark on your record. And Mr Waverly trusts you. "

"But what do you think?" Illya asked.

"I told you what I think," he said levelly.

"No, you told me what others think," Illya said. "But you do appear to be keeping an eye on me."

"Is that what you think is happening here?" He shrugged carelessly. "Someone's got to destroy the mine while I rescue the Contessa."

"So I am useful to you?" Illya asked slowly. "That's your angle?"

Somehow, he was tired of this conversation. "Mr Waverly assigned us as partners," he said, draining his glass. "That's all."

Illya looked at him, clearly unconvinced, and he gave a rueful half-smile, silently admitting that he wasn't completely convinced either. It occurred to him that it _hadn't_ occurred to him to ask Illya to keep quiet about the nightmare, and there were reasons for that. Sure, he would have trusted any of the partners he'd had before to keep quiet, but there would have been a discussion about it. He would have felt like he had to ask, maybe even order. And then too, paradoxically, he only ever had nightmares when he felt safe. Up until tonight, he had only ever had them when he was alone.

Terrific. He'd worked with agents formerly of the CIA, the FBI, the SDECE, MI6, Interpol and the US Army, and the one that his subconscious apparently decided could be trusted beyond all doubt was the one from the KGB.

"Would it bother you?" he asked curiously. "If I chose not to dissolve this partnership?"

There was a guarded look in Illya's eyes. Napoleon suspected he thought that this might all be a test of some kind. "It does not bother me one way or the other," he said curtly. "I am used to working alone, but I will not deny that we appear to work well together."

They did. There didn't seem to be any reason why they should; so far they seemed to share very little common ground. But maybe all of that was superficial after all. Maybe they shared something more fundamental, a deeper connection...or maybe it was four o'clock in the morning and he needed another glass of wine.

He poured them both another glass and half the bottle was gone. "Didn't you ever have a partner in England?" he asked.

"Occasionally I would work with others," Illya said. "However, it was known I was only going to be there for a short period...and no one wanted to work with the Bolshie."

He grimaced. "That's not what this organisation is supposed to be about."

"You can't change what men believe," Illya said indifferently. "Not even by sending them to live among penguins."

"I believe there are sheep as well," he said with a slight smile.

"I am sure that makes all the difference," Illya said solemnly.

"What about before?" he asked. "In Russia?"

Illya gazed at him for a very long moment. "In Russia," he said slowly. "There are neither sheep nor penguins."

And that, obviously, had not even been close to the question Napoleon was asking him. Except he supposed he already had an answer; Illya had said he was used to working alone, and that suggested he meant for longer than just the time he'd been working for UNCLE. From his file, he'd spent time in both Cambridge and Paris, ostensibly studying. That wouldn't give much opportunity for working with others beyond, possibly, some handler somewhere. It had to be difficult to always be the stranger in the strange land.

"So," he said cheerfully. "We both dream of bombs in thunderstorms, and neither of us knows how to work well with others. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Illya stared at him blankly.

He sighed. "Casablanca?"

Silently, Illya shook his head.

"You've not seen that movie, huh." Napoleon pursed his lips in thought. "Okay. I'm going to make it my mission in life to find a theatre that's playing it. Because you need to see Bogart and Bergman at least once."

"I don't care overly for movies," Illya said stiffly, but then he gave a guarded smile. "However I do enjoy the popcorn."

"Perfect," Napoleon smiled. "My treat."

He wasn't quite sure about a beautiful friendship. But he thought at the very least, this might just be the start of a truly great partnership.


	7. The Silent Treatment

**A/N: Episode tag to The Arabian Affair. And dialogue fic. Because I like dialogue fic. Hope it works.**

* * *

"It's good to be back somewhere with air conditioning, isn't it?"

"..."

"I think the flight's diverted via Paris. Hopefully that means some pretty mademoiselle will join us for the last leg."

"..."

"Have you finished your coffee?"

"..."

"Fine. Fine. I get the hint."

"..."

*tuneless whistling*.

" _Really,_ Napoleon?"

"Ah, you see? I knew you'd have to talk to me eventually."

"If only to tell you to be quiet."

"You've been sulking since Abu Dhabi."

"You want me to talk to you yet you accuse me of sulking? It's like being partnered with a child. One who demands constant attention."

"A child... Who was just giving _who_ the silent treatment exactly?"

"I was not giving you the 'silent treatment', I was merely not dignifying any of your inane remarks with a response."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

"No one actually says po-tah-to."

"How long are you planning on being angry with me?"

"I am surprised the idea bothers you."

"Illya - "

" - a quarter of a camel. That is what I am worth to you."

"Be fair, she talked me back up to half a camel."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Alright, I'm prepared to accept that wasn't as helpful as I'd hoped. Look, tovarisch, you know what Mr Waverly said about budget constraints. Our expense claims - "

" - I do not go on your expense claims, Napoleon!"

"Technically, you do this week."

"This is why I am not speaking to you."

"Technically, you are."

"No, I am arguing with you. An altogether different proposition."

"And not nearly as much fun for me."

"You should have thought of that - "

" - before I tried to talk her down to a quarter of a camel. Yes, I know. Look. You know the whole thing is ridiculous. I don't happen to believe that a human being can be bought for any number of camels, and neither do you. This was simply the fastest way to untangle you from your, uh, 'hosts'."

"That was a very nice speech, my friend."

"Thank you."

"But you did not do it because you do not believe in slavery. And you didn't do it on account of our budget. You did it because it amused you. Hence, my value to you is demonstrably a quarter of a camel. And a cheap laugh."

"I don't believe I'm having this conversation."

"I don't believe you traded me for a quarter of a camel."

" _Half_ a...never mind. I don't believe you pretended to be the son of Lawrence of Arabia."

"There was an opportunity. I took it."

"Sneaky Russian."

"I felt it was better than being swapped for a camel. Of course, as it transpired - "

" - yes, I know. Half a camel. This really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"That I go missing in one of the most inhospitable places on earth for a week, am presumably given up for dead while in reality I am grievously injured and captured by those intent on selling me into slavery, and when I finally manage to meet up with _you –_ my partner, my superior agent and my supposed best friend – you are intent on finding out just how little you can afford to pay to get me back? No. Why would that bother me?"

"..."

"..."

"How's your leg?"

"Throbbing. Thank you."

"I didn't give you up for dead, you know. Not for a second."

"Hmmm."

"And you know I did go to the bother of figuring out a whole new aspect of THRUSH's MO, and turning a previously loyal THRUSH employee in order to get you back."

"Your commitment is exemplary."

"But not, somehow, enough to get me off the hook."

"..."

"Alright. You're worth more than a quarter of a camel."

"Thank you, Napoleon, however my own estimation of my worth is not the matter under debate."

"You're really picky today, you know that? Alright. You're worth far more than a camel to me. Satisfied?"

"Thank you. Was that really so difficult?"

"Extraordinarily. You know, it's not like I would have just told her she could keep you if she hadn't been willing to negotiate."

"Yes. I know."

"You really can be very aggravating."

"And _you_ can be very - "

" - yes. Yes, alright."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"The whole thing really was - "

" - oh, completely ridiculous. I am not denying that."

"What do you say to dinner when we get back? Maybe Benny's, or the Hummingbird, or maybe just getting some Chinese take out from that place down the street from me?"

"Your treat?"

"Ah. Well..."

"I knew it. You may have dinner with the other half of the camel. I have plans."

"Oh, _really?"_

"..."

"Illya."

"..."

" _Illya..."_


	8. The Academic Life

**A/N: Written for the Section VII short affair challenge - prompt words are crimson and library**

* * *

There were places where it was appropriate to indulge in a gunfight and places where really the very idea was just tacky, in Illya's opinion anyway. And really, the library at Trinity College, Cambridge should be completely out of bounds. He would have thought even THRUSH valued knowledge enough to respect that.

Although it wasn't just THRUSH he had to worry about right now he thought, as a dart passed just over his head and forcibly struck through a shelf just over to the left, sending papers flying everywhere. From safe behind the reshelving trolley he was using for cover, he turned and glared up towards the mezzanine where his partner was firing from. "Be careful, Napoleon," he scolded. "I'd had hopes of reading some of those journals while we were here."

"Well, why don't you tell me what I can shoot at then," came the exasperated reply. He couldn't see Napoleon's face from here, but he could easily imagine the expression on his face.

"THRUSH," he said, knowing it was certain to annoy. "Shoot at THRUSH. Please."

"Smart alec Russian," Napoleon said, shooting towards the other side of the mezzanine at something – or hopefully, someone – out of Illya's sight. "Is that the sort of clever thinking they teach round here?"

"I studied physics," he reminded Napoleon. "Not espionage. There were very few times my tutors encouraged me to shoot anyone." Although as they both knew he'd already been working for the KGB even while he'd studied here. He'd liked the academic life though. He remembered studying in this very library, long into the night. His favourite table had been right over there...and now he looked, one of the THRUSH agents was currently taking cover behind it. What's more, he'd overturned it, breaking the legs off.

With a sigh, Illya took careful aim and shot the man with a sleep dart. He couldn't help but think it would have been nice to have that option in previous times when people stole his seat.

He got another THRUSH agent as he peered out from between the stacks, and another dropped down off the mezzanine, courtesy of Napoleon.

"Was that the last of them?" Napoleon called down to him. "I'm out of darts."

"I counted five," he said, and certainly five men were down and no one was currently shooting at them. Cautiously, he stood up and looked around and groaned at the mess. Shelves overturned, books scattered, torn and, in some unfortunate cases, peppered with bullet holes. "This is going to be very difficult to explain," he said with feeling.

"Oh, suddenly the clean up matters when you've got your reunion this evening," Napoleon said, leaning over the railing.

He glanced up. "It is not a reunion, my old tutor merely invited me to come along to formal hall for dinner, since I was in town." But he'd been pleased to be asked, pleased to be remembered for his academic prowess rather than anything else, and it was going to be exceedingly awkward to explain that the devastation of the library had been necessary in order to save three Nobel laureates. "You know, he said you would be welcome to join us."

"Several hours spent listening to a bunch of dusty academics talk science?" Napoleon wrinkled his nose. "I think I'll pass."

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. "The food is also - "

" - alright, stay exactly where you are and don't try anything!"

Ah. Apparently his count was off. There had been six of them after all, and the last was standing right in front of him, pointing a gun at his head. He had to admit, this served him right for being distracted by the sight of the ruined books.

"Drop your gun and put your hands above your head," the man went on.

He obeyed, slowly, conscious of Napoleon moving stealthily above him. Was it possible the THRUSH agent hadn't realised there was two of them?

Apparently so, since all his attention was on Illya. His lip curled back exposing yellowed teeth. "I'm going to get a nice bonus for killing you," he said.

Illya smiled. "Look up," he advised.

Instinctively, his would-be-killer did – just in time to be struck in the face by an exceedingly thick and apparently exceptionally heavy book. Illya darted forwards ready to snatch his gun but it was needless; the man was already out cold.

He looked up to see Napoleon back lounging on the railing, a wide smile on his face.

"A nice shot," Illya conceded. "Thank you."

Napoleon's smile grew wider. "Look at the book," he said.

Blinking, he did. It was bound in crimson leather with gold writing across the front. _An Introduction to Comparative Art Philosophy._ He sighed.

"I bet you never thought you'd be saved by the liberal arts," Napoleon told him.

"In the circumstances, any book of similar weight would have been effective," he pointed out. "I promise you, there are many very well respected scientists who are just as incapable of coming to the point."

"Oh, yes," Napoleon said innocently. "I'm well aware that scientists can be _extremely_ boring, you don't need to - "

They stopped short at the sound of high heels clacking along the stone floor towards them.

Exchanging a quick apprehensive glance with Napoleon, Illya moved towards the door, gun drawn. He had no wish to be taken by surprise for a third time, but it was a librarian who walked through the door, all tweed skirt and pearls.

For a long moment, she just gazed speechlessly around at the wreckage of the library, the ruined books, the broken furniture, the unconscious men. Then she looked up at Illya, still uncomfortably pointing a gun at her and raised a trembling finger to her lips.

"Shhhhh," she said. And that was that.


	9. Another One of Those Days

**A/N: Episode tag to the Mad, Mad Tea Party Affair. Written because when they discover the fish in the water supply, Illya appears ridiculously delighted. And also written for the Short Affair prompt on Section VII - words were pink and abyss.**

* * *

Napoleon was looking forward to a quiet day after the chaos of yesterday. Obviously after everything Mr Hemingway had managed to do, they needed a complete overhaul of headquarters security, not to mention they needed to take another look at recruitment screening, considering a THRUSH infiltrator had managed to rise so far inside UNCLE. For once, he was hoping they'd have some time in the office before their next out-of-town assignment - there was too much to do, and he was already making plans as he made his way in.

Of course, his train of thought was completely derailed when he walked into his office and saw a large fish-tank where no fish-tank should be.

Instinctively he drew his gun and immediately felt foolish - it wasn't as though he expected the fish-tank to start shooting. But nevertheless its sudden appearance was a threat, of sorts...though if anyone was trying to smuggle in a bomb, a fish-tank probably wasn't the most obvious choice. Carefully, he crept closer. Yes. That was definitely a fish-tank, complete with a few weeds waving in the bubbles, cheery pink rocks lining the bottom, and of course, a school of brightly shining fish.

Napoleon bent and took a closer look at the fish. The fish ignored him.

They were guppies, presumably some of the ones extracted from the water supply yesterday. Could this be a last joke from Mr Hemingway? Unlikely; it didn't seem like quite his style. No, this had to be someone else.

Wait a minute here. He was overlooking another likely culprit. Illya's jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, suggesting that Illya was already in and well aware of the new addition to the office.

He heard footsteps approaching and quickly moved so he was standing directly in Illya's path when he opened the door, mug of coffee in hand. "Good morning," he said.

"Oh, good morning, Napoleon," Illya said. "I did not realise you were in, or else I would have picked you up a coffee as well."

"In the hopes of distracting me from the fish-tank?" he asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Illya said, slipping past him and going to sit at his desk. "I have enough faith in your powers of observation that I would expect you to notice it regardless. As you have."

Napoleon nodded patiently. "Illya, why is there a fish-tank in my office?"

" _Our_ office," Illya corrected him quickly.

"Alright," he conceded. "Why is there a fish-tank in _our_ office?"

Illya sipped his coffee slowly. "To keep the fish in," he said at last.

Briefly, Napoleon considered whether it was possible that yesterday's glimpse into the abyss of insanity - or down the rabbit hole as Kay would put it - could have been all too much for his partner. Perhaps he should suggest that Illya take some vacation time. "Let me guess," he suggested sarcastically. "They followed you home?"

And now Illya was looking at him like _he_ thought _Napoleon_ was the one talking crazy. "They are some of the ones Mr Hemingway put in the water supply. And as they are fish, they are quite incapable of following me anywhere, unless, I suppose, headquarters should chance to flood. Even then, I would think it most unlikely."

Napoleon stared. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Doing what?" Illya asked, innocently.

He took a deep breath. "Illya, what are these fish doing in our office? And I swear, if you say swimming - "

" - I like them," Illya said. "They add life to the place. Don't you think?"

"You can't keep fish in the office," he said.

Illya looked at him coldly. "They are on my side of the office," he said. "I am quite happy to get out the measuring tape and the white paint again to demonstrate, although I would remind you that Miss Ratchett said if we started that again she would review our office allocation."

"No, no," he said quickly, holding his hands up at the thought of Miss Ratchett, the office resource manager who kept muttering darkly about why Section II got all the best spaces despite the fact that they spent half their time out the country. She'd already threatened to reassign them to separate offices. As aggravating as Illya was, Napoleon really didn't want to share an office with anyone else - and not just because some of the alternatives were even worse; Davies seemed to exist in a constant tornado of empty chip bags and candy wrappers, and Gunersson had triggered a biological weapons alert when he'd brought in a particular Scandinavian delicacy. Compared to that, what were a few fish?

Besides, he thought, realising that he'd been staring at them for a while. Watching them like this was quite soothing.

He sighed. "Just make sure they stay on your side, alright?"

"Again, unless the office is flooded - " Illya began.

Napoleon looked at him.

Grudgingly, Illya nodded. "Agreed."

"And make sure the fish are an end of it," he added. "I don't want to come in here tomorrow and find that you've installed a cat and a canary."

"Of course not," Illya agreed. "A cat, a canary and fish would be a very bad combination."

He shook his head and returned to his own desk. "Are you even allowed to keep animals in headquarters?"

"I checked," Illya said. "There are no existing rules against it."

He looked at his partner and shook his head again. He'd be willing to bet that some new rules were going to be drafted that very day, probably right around the time Miss Ratchett learned of this. But that was a problem for later; right now he needed to carry on with the security review. And he should probably add to that the small matter of just how a crazy Russian had managed to bring in a ten gallon fish-tank without anyone noticing.

It was going to be another one of those days, wasn't it?


	10. Dreaming of Icarus

**A/N: Written for the pic challenge on Section VII**

* * *

It wasn't often that he took the time to stop and admire the sky, but it really was extraordinarily beautiful today. The sun was not long risen and the sky was clear above the clouds, glorious shades of purples and greys, so close he could almost touch them. He sighed; for the first time in months he felt entirely at peace, free of all the doubt and loneliness that plagued him.

"Very good, Mr Solo," a soft musical voice said. "Now, ease the throttle forwards and let's climb to 10,000 feet."

Oh. He blinked, strangely unsettled. He'd almost forgotten that he was flying the plane.

He turned and smiled at Marissa, his gorgeous instructor, ignoring the cold lurch in the pit of his stomach. "I'm sorry," he said. "What height did you say?"

"10,000 feet," she repeated.

He nodded and let the plane climb. It seemed to come naturally.

The problem with having such patchwork flying experience was that it made it difficult for him to log enough flying hours to keep his flying certification. He had no doubt that he had, in fact, spent enough time in the air to qualify, but as at least half the planes had been stolen from THRUSH, it made it more difficult to provide the right paperwork, and the UNCLE flying school were apparently sticklers for the right paperwork.

Advanced flying lessons were the answers given to that, and Napoleon didn't mind much. Even leaving aside the fact that Marissa was very beautiful, he was finding it incredibly relaxing. Besides. It gave him something to focus on.

He watched the clouds drift by, feeling like if he just turned off the engine he could glide right along with them, drifting forever.

Illya was in the hospital and had been for the last two months, leaving him bereft, if not aimless. He'd been on six ( _or maybe seven? He wasn't sure_ ) assignments in quick succession, and while that was nothing unusual and certainly nothing he couldn't handle, he somehow felt a a bit of a loss.

Funny. It used to be that being alone was comfortable for him. Oh, company had always been easy to find, and friendship only a little more difficult, but those times when he had been on his own back then, he hadn't found himself looking round for someone to share a joke or a significant glance with. Even when he was working with others it wasn't the same.

" _Of course not, darling," April had told him over a bottle of wine in a bar in Seville while they were waiting for Mark to get back. "You like us fine, but we're not Illya. You_ are _allowed to miss him, you know."_

Miss him...yes.

He was supposed to be seeing Illya today, wasn't he? At St Joshua's, the UNCLE rehabilitation hospital. He didn't want to be late, what time was it?

"Focus on flying, Mr Solo," Marissa said sharply. "That's the only thing that matters here. Now, let's climb back up to 10,000 feet."

Oh. They'd lost height somehow, and with it his sense of serenity. They were closer to the ground and he didn't recognise anything. He tried banking and looking out Marissa's window for some landmark or something, but he couldn't see through the red splashed across the glass. Determinedly he turned the plane towards the sun and closed his eyes, enjoying the light and the warmth on his face.

For a while he simply let the plane fly where it would and let his mind drift through sunlight.

"You're almost out of fuel, Napoleon," Illya warned him. "You need to land soon."

He glanced at the gauge and tapped it clinically. It was sitting on empty and had been for some time. "Just a little while longer," he said. "There's no rush."

"We have all the time in the world," Marissa promised, her voice soft and enticing, the gun in her hand a mere afterthought.

There was something wrong here. "You're supposed to be in hospital," he said to Illya with a frown, turning round to confront him where he was lying back on the sofa. "When did you get out?"

"Through the window," Illya replied cryptically. He looked pensive. "Mr Waverly was quite cross."

He sighed. "You told me you'd stay there until the doctors released you," he chided.

Illya looked at him. "You told me you would come back," he said.

"I will," he said exasperatedly. "Just as soon as I'm done here." Only...what was he doing here? How long had they been in the air? It felt like years, but the sun was still rising.

He felt a surge of panic and just for a second there was a sharp, shooting pain in his chest and left leg and the sky seemed to dissolve into blackness.

"Why don't we climb higher?" Marissa said quickly. "Say, 15,000 feet?"

"The ceiling on a Cessna 172 is 13,500 feet," Illya remarked to no one in particular.

Napoleon ignored him.

"That's it," Marissa whispered. "The sky is no limit at all. Just let go and escape it all."

"Napoleon." Illya's hand was resting on his shoulder. "Remember she is THRUSH. Remember she is dead."

He turned sharply to look at Marissa, and he could see the bloody gash where the bullet had torn across her throat, and his finger was on the trigger, her hands wrapped around his, struggling, and she was choking, dying, blood bubbling out between her lips, her eyes huge and disbelieving.

The sky grew dark and the clouds rolled with heavy thunder.

"I didn't want to remember that!" he shouted accusingly, and then the pain hit him with all the force of a tornado. The instruments were spinning wildly, completing out of control, and he desperately tried to correct, but his leg felt like it was being crushed in a vice, and someone was punching his chest, and Illya was shouting at him from somewhere far away, his accent thicker than usual, his words choked. " _Come on, Napoleon, don't you dare give up on me now. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me,"_ and that wasn't fair, because his eyes were already open.

When the skies cleared he was alone. Marissa and Illya were nowhere in sight. He didn't _want_ to be alone.

The ground looked impossibly far away, hard and cold and remote, and from this distance there was so much less there than he'd ever imagined.

He flew up. He barely needed the plane at all now. There was another sky beyond the cloud and it was wide and bright and glorious and all he had to do was fly off into the light and there was so much more there than he could see. Already, he could feel the peace shining down on him.

 _Don't give up. I miss you, my friend._

He closed his eyes; somewhere he could hear Illya's voice. And after all, if he had missed Illya over the last couple of months, how could he even pretend that Illya wasn't missing him?

Ah, well. He grinned. When had he ever given up on anything in his life?

He brought the plane around and started descending, and immediately the plane started to shake and break up around him, and he was crashing, falling out of the sky, and the ground was screaming up towards him, and there were too many trees, too many rocks, and he had to try and put it down on the river, he had to try, but just when he thought he should hit, just when he was bracing himself for the impact and the pain, he felt the plane dissolve away and he was just falling now, lost and drowning in the sky -

A strong hand wrapped around his, pulling him up and out of darkness.

He opened his eyes.

He was lying in a narrow hospital bed in a darkened room, and Illya was sitting slumped in a chair by his bedside, his hand wrapped around Napoleon's. He looked exhausted; unshaven and apparently dressed in a hospital gown over a pair of black sweatpants.

"Hi," Napoleon rasped, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth with difficulty. "I had a weird dream."

Illya blinked and stared at him, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I will fetch the doctor," he said, making to stand up.

Napoleon grabbed his hand tighter. "Don't," he said. "Stay. Please."

"Of course," Illya said, sitting back down, the smile still alive in his eyes.

"It was a plane crash?" he managed to ask.

"Yes," Illya told him. "Three days ago. You were looking for a THRUSH infiltrator in the flight school. Apparently you found her."

He nodded, hardly listening, concentrating on the feeling of Illya's hand on his. Right now, this was all there was. Keeping him grounded. Letting him fly.


	11. Rules for Dating Section II

**A/N: This is longer than I'd normally write for a chapter in this collection, but as it's actually a series of short pieces I figured I'd allow it. I make the rules after all.**

* * *

 _UNCLE Internal Memo No. 369_

 _FAO: All ladies of Sections IV through VIII (and you fellas as well, now that Miss Dancer's joined Section II!) To be discreetly displayed on noticeboards in the staff break rooms._

 _Alright, let's be honest, most of the single ladies in this organisation have at least thought about dating one of our Section II agents. And why not? They're dashing, they're fun, they're clever, and I think Section VI actually screen for handsome during the recruiting process. But I think that those of us who have been there would agree, there are some special measures and considerations that have to be taken. And I'm not just talking about the need to make sure that only one person in any one department is dating a given agent at a time – that's really a Mr Solo specific problem._

 _Anyway, a group of us has gathered together and compiled the below list of rules for all of us who are intent on dating Section II. Please read them carefully, and feel free to make your own additions._

 _Rules for dating Section II Agents._

 _1) They are not going to marry you._

 _2) If their communicator goes off during dinner, just smile and let them go._

 _3) Sometimes they won't even make the date. Just change your plans and hope they come home safe._

 _4) Yes, they will bring weapons to your date. And they have even more in their apartment. Don't try and negotiate otherwise.  
5) If their partner is hurt or missing, accept that you take second place._

 _6) Remember, the difference between a bad day for you and a bad day for them tends to be a body count. Try not to startle them._

 _7) Sometimes it's easier to let them pick where you go, and where you sit.  
8) Really, they're not going to marry you. _

_9) They have scars. Be prepared and don't make a fuss._

 _10) You are never going to know them the way you want to. Just remember why they're worth it._

* * *

 **1) They are not going to marry you**

"Oh, look at that!" Jo exclaimed with delight, gazing up at the new wedding dress display in Madame Giraud's. The skirt had a extra layer of lace swirled over it, embroidered here and there with tiny pink roses. Really, it was magnificent. She blushed suddenly, remembering exactly where she was...and who she was with. "Um, sorry Napoleon. I wasn't trying to hint or anything."

"I know," he said, standing beside her, his arm slipped softly around her waist. "It really is a lovely dress."

"Yes..." she said slowly, looking away. "We should hurry, right? We're going to be late for the play."

Later, after the play, after a late dinner and what felt like hours of tender lovemaking, she lay awake and looked at him and thought of the dress. Funny how it only struck her now how much she wanted to wear one like that some day. And yes, if she closed her eyes, she could imagine Napoleon standing opposite her, handsome and happy. But she wanted everything that came after the wedding dress as well, and as much as it hurt to admit, she couldn't imagine him there. Even if he wasn't Section II, she knew he wouldn't want to marry her. She was one of the many women he smiled on from time to time, whenever he happened to be in Vancouver, and he...well, he wasn't the only man she dated. This was just a bit of fun - for both of them.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, running his thumb softly over her forehead where her brow had creased.

"I'm thinking..." She took a deep breath. "I'm thinking I'm going to start going out with Richard Lowmoss."

"Ah." He brushed his thumb over her lips. His eyes were giving nothing away. "From Section IV? He's a good man."

"Yes," she agreed. "And all the girls say he's been looking at me. And he _is_ very handsome."

"If you like that sort of thing," he said, leaning over and kissing her gently. "I'll miss you."

She felt her resolve start to crumble. He was the most wonderful man she'd ever known...but he wasn't what she was looking for. "I'll miss you," she said, and she made the kiss final.

* * *

 **2) If their communicator goes off during dinner, just let them go.**

Everything about tonight was perfect. She'd spent a small fortune at the hairdressers that afternoon, getting the absolute best colour to set off her dress, and the dress itself was guaranteed to seduce. In a move that should probably embarrass her to admit, Callie had spent a good ten minutes in front of the mirror after she was already perfect, just admiring herself. And she'd really enjoyed the look of appreciation in Napoleon's eyes when he'd seen her. She'd rarely felt this gorgeous before - this sexy.

And the restaurant was everything she could have hoped for, swanky, exclusive, so _in_. She'd spotted two movie actors and a senator already. Imagine her eating in the same room as a senator. This was all the glamour she'd hoped for when she'd started working for UNCLE. Much more exciting than cross-referencing international crime reports.

She smiled at Napoleon over her lobster. He was perfect too. So suave, so debonair. The kind of man every girl dreamed of having on her arm, and she loved the way he looked at her like _she_ was the only one in the room...until his communicator suddenly sounded anyway.

"You took that on our date?" she said with a pout.

He raised an eyebrow. "We're required to take it everywhere," he pointed out, pulling it out of his pocket and discreetly propping up the menu to cover his actions from the rest of the restaurant. "Solo here," he said, talking into the pen like she wasn't even here.

"Napoleon?" She recognised Illya Kuryakin's voice immediately. "We've just got word that Berndt and Oliver never made it out of Rio. It looks as though the plant is still active. Mr Waverly wants us there yesterday."

"I'll meet you at the airport," Napoleon said.

"Very well." There was a pause. "Say hello to Chrissie for me."

"Callie," Napoleon corrected quickly, and really, she didn't care that Illya didn't know her name, that wasn't what was upsetting here.

"You really have to go?" she asked, as he put his communicator away and made to stand up.

"Unfortunately, yes," he said with a sigh. "I'll take care of the bill and call you a cab."

"I'm sure you can stay just a little longer," she said enticingly, kicking off her shoe and running her stockinged foot up the inside of his leg. "Just tell Illya the traffic was bad. I'm sure he can take care of himself for a few hours."

"As tempting as that is, I'm going to have to decline," he said, standing up.

Oh, that man! She'd never felt so rejected before. "Fine then," she snapped. "Go and play your spy games. And don't come crawling to me for another date when you get back. This was your one chance, buster."

He gazed at her. "Sorry to hear that," he said blandly. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

She sat and fumed long after he'd paid and left.

* * *

 **3) Sometimes they won't even make the date. Just change your plans and hope they come home safe.**

Alice had been standing by the front door with her purse in her hand for around thirty minutes. Even allowing for the fact that she'd been ready far too early, that still made Napoleon almost twenty minutes late. This was the first time he'd ever taken her out - maybe he'd changed his mind? How awful would that be, when he'd already dated every other girl in her department? ( _Especially when they all whispered about just how wonderful he really was._ ) No, she was sure that he'd have called her to cancel if that was the case. All the girls said he had beautiful manners. ( _And beautiful other things too...she blushed._ ) Of course, he could be missing. Emma had had a date with Jason Corwin six months ago and he'd been abducted at gunpoint while he was walking her back to her car! She still talked about it all the time.

Determined, she went back into her apartment and called in to work. Good thing Linda was the one on duty tonight.

"I don't suppose you happen to know where Mr Solo is?" she asked.

"Oh, were you his date for tonight?" Linda asked sympathetically. "Sorry, honey, he and Mr Kuryakin were on the flight back from Dallas when they got caught up in some new affair. They're in San Diego now - the last anyone heard, anyway. I don't imagine he had a chance to call you."

"No," she said with a sigh. "I guess he didn't." She bit her lip hard, hoping Napoleon was okay. He always was, she supposed. "Say, when does your shift finish?"

"In half an hour," Linda said. "Want to meet me?"

"Why not?" she said. "We can head round to the Sapphire Lounge. It's always jumping on a Friday."  
After all, there was no point in wasting this outfit.

* * *

 **4) Yes, they will bring weapons to your date. And they have even more in their apartment. Don't try and negotiate otherwise.**

There was always something awkward about meeting a co-worker you didn't know particularly well outside work. Particularly when the said co-worker was the unbearably good looking and devastatingly remote Russian you'd had a crush on since, oh, about forever, and the venue was a down-at-heel jazz club where the smoky air held just enough of the sweet scent of marijuana to make you nervous.

Of course, Mary Lou thought, all that awkwardness was kind of offset – or maybe amplified? - by the fact that Illya had appeared just as her 'date' for the evening had decided to reveal himself as a handsy jerk, and solved _that_ little bit of awkwardness by politely asking him to leave her alone, and when that didn't work, impolitely flipping him over the bar and telling the bar tender to charge any damages to the jerk.

At least that gave them a conversational opening, and she realised very quickly that his presence here tonight wasn't a coincidence or a mistake; they had a shared love of jazz music.

"But isn't jazz forbidden in the USSR?" she asked involuntarily, certain she remembered reading that somewhere.

"Is it?" He looked at her blankly. "Ah, well, please don't tell anyone you saw me here then."

And yes, the feeling he was making fun of her was enough to keep her awake that night, but the feeling when he stopped by her desk the next week and asked if she wanted to go back to the club with him was just out of this world. Her. Really. There were far prettier girls than her in headquarters she knew, and she was sure they couldn't _all_ be dating Mr Solo, could they?

And so they went out a few different jazz clubs over the next few weeks, and it was nice to go with someone who appreciated the music as much as she did and didn't insist on making conversation through it, and Mary Lou was surprised, but very far from disappointed, when they ended up in his bedroom.

When he was getting undressed though and he took off his jacket to reveal the gun and the holster, she stared in shock.

"You were wearing that tonight?" she blurted out.

"Of course," he said, like the fact that he was carrying a loaded weapon on a date wasn't odd at all...which maybe it wasn't to him.

"H-have you been carrying that _every_ time we've been out?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, watching her keenly. "I'm sorry. I assumed you knew."

No. No, she hadn't, and she thought of all the times she'd been held close to him and shivered. "Oh!" she said blankly, sitting down heavily on the bed. To be honest, that was more than a bit of a mood killer. "What...where are you going to put it?"

"I usually put it on the nightstand," he said. "I sleep with it under my pillow."

"Oh," she said again. She suddenly realised for the first time that the man she listened to music with was the same man she'd read about shooting five terrorists last week. That took a bit of mental readjustment. She took a deep breath. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

He considered for a second. "I have a knife hidden just above my sock, there is another gun concealed behind the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and I keep some C4 in the bottom of the vegetable rack in the kitchen."

"Why do you have plastic explosives in the kitchen?" she squeaked.

"Ah," he said. "There are two schools of thought on that. I say it's because it's best to be prepared. Napoleon says it's because I am crazy and paranoid. Of course, last month he also asked me to blow up that tank, so I think he's coming round to my point of view."

It was so ridiculous that she burst out laughing. Had anything really changed...? No. No, she didn't think it had. She'd just been caught by surprise, that was all.

"Do you want me to call you a cab?" he asked, watching her carefully.

She smiled. "No," she said. "I want you to come over here and kiss me."

* * *

 **5) If their partner is hurt or missing, accept that you take second place.**

"It's just not fair," Megan complained bitterly to the group gathered around the coffee machine. "Napoleon promised to take me to the tree-lighting ceremony at the Rockefeller Centre _weeks_ ago. And now he says he can't."

"Isn't he still in medical?" Linda asked with a frown. "With Illya?"

Steffie stared at her. "Did you really go and try and drag him away?"

"Oh, Kuryakin's going to be fine," Megan said dismissively. "Napoleon even said that the doctors said he could wake up any time now."

"So Napoleon isn't going to want to go anywhere else until he does, is he?" Linda said tartly. "Of course he wants to be there for his partner, you know what they're like."

"It's one night," she huffed. "A night I've been looking forward to for _weeks._ It's not like it's his job to sit at Kuryakin's bedside. Doesn't that commie have any friends of his own? I tell you, if he can't handle waking up in medical without the CEA there holding his hand, maybe he doesn't have what it takes to be in Section II. Everyone knows he's Waverly's special project. What do you want to bet that the Russian's sent us their worst agent just as a token gesture?" She didn't really believe that, of course, but she had every right to be frustrated when Napoleon cancelled on her like this. "Napoleon shouldn't waste his time on him."

There was a cough behind her, and she suddenly realised that all the girls were staring over her shoulder. She turned slowly to see Mr Waverly standing there, with Marco White and Louie Framer from Section II. The two Section II agents were gazing at her with expressions of open hostility.

She swallowed hard.

At least Mr Waverly didn't seem to have heard what she said. "Ah, Miss Drosten, would you mind coming by my office later this afternoon?" he asked, looking right past her. "There are some personnel records I want to look over."

"Of course, Mr Waverly," Carla agreed and Mr Waverly walked away.

"Uh, fellas," she said to Marco and Louie, her eyelashes lowered and her smile tremulously flirty. "You're not going to tell Napoleon what I just said, are you? You know I was only blowing off steam."

Marco snorted. "Yeah, we got more loyalty to him than that, "he said with a disgusted look. He nodded to the girls behind her. "Ladies."

They walked away too.

"Well," Linda said, with just a little too much pleasure in her voice. "Congratulations. It looks like you just managed to talk your way out of the UNCLE dating pool."

* * *

 **6) Remember, the difference between a bad day for you and a bad day for them tends to be a body count. Try not to startle them.**

Napoleon had actually fallen asleep for a couple of seconds in the elevator ride up to his apartment. It was only when the door buzzed angrily to let him know his shoulder was obstructing it that he actually realised he was more or less home. Home. At long last.

It felt like everything that could possibly go wrong today had. They'd been sent out to clear up a botched operation in Long Island, and rescue Williams and Rockwell. Only by the time they'd arrived, the junior agents were already dead, and THRUSH had a whole office block worth of hostages – test subjects – at their disposal. Whatever the compound was that THRUSH had been manufacturing here, it seemed to drive the hostages berserk. They'd been fighting each other, fighting him and Illya, fighting THRUSH...and they hadn't been quick enough, or good enough, to subdue the building. Three innocents had died, and in the end they'd been fighting through the corridors, no way of telling hostage from kidnapper, just shooting everyone with sleep darts and hoping to sort it out later.

Three innocents dead. Two UNCLE agents killed. And in the end, Dr Kerouac, the chief scientist, had escaped with the formula for the compound, ready to set up shop somewhere else. It was days like this that made Napoleon wonder if anything they did made any difference at all.

It took a moment of fumbling with his keys before he realised that the door was unlocked.

Adrenaline surged through his tired body; he had definitely locked it that morning. Whoever had broken in was going to regret it, he really wasn't in the mood. Gun in hand, he pushed the door open and walked inside, carefully not turning on the light but feigning nonchalance.

He heard the footsteps before the hand grabbed his arm and he reacted instantly, flipping his attacker over his shoulder and shoving his gun directly in their face, before reaching out and turning on the light.

Jessica stared up at him, her face blanched white, her eyes wide and terrified. "Napoleon!"

He sighed and stood back to let her stand up, lowering his gun but not actually putting it away. "Why are you here and how did you get in?" he asked.

"I...I wanted to surprise you," she stuttered. "I heard you'd had a bad day and I thought you might need some...some cheering up. And, um, I found your spare set of keys the last time I stayed over."

It had the ring of truth to it. Stupid truth, but truth nonetheless. "Sorry," he said, putting his gun away. "I don't like being surprised. Generally speaking, when someone breaks into an agent's apartment, they don't have good intentions." He paused. "You know, I should report this. I'm not going to, but I should."

She nodded, shamefaced and near tears. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just thought...I just wanted to see you."

Normally he'd be trying to comfort her. Normally he'd be feeing sorry for her. Tonight, he was just too tired and out of patience. "If I'd been just a little slower to react, I might have shot you," he told her, because he needed to make sure she didn't try this again, with him or any other agent.

If possible, she went even whiter. "I should go," she said in a small voice.

"Yes," he agreed. "You probably should." He walked her to the door and held out his hand. "Keys. Please."

She handed them over without a murmur of protest, and he managed to smile at her and apologise again and promise that there were no hard feelings, at least on his part.

Maybe tomorrow he'd regret sending her away. For now, with his heart still beating a little too fast, he just wanted to go to bed and sleep.

* * *

 **7) Sometimes it's easier to let them pick where you go, and where you sit.**

"Here is your table, sir, ma'am," the waiter said smoothly.

"Oh, it's amazing," Rachel exclaimed happily, gazing out the large glass windows at the city. "Just look at the view, Napoleon!"

"Yes," he agreed slowly before turning to the waiter. "Say, would you mind finding us a different table? Something less...exposed? I have a small fear of heights." He produced a handful of bills and the waiter's eyes locked on to them immediately and, to Rachel's displeasure, he immediately led them through the table to a more secluded table near the back with only a side-on view of those windows and that amazing view.

"You're not afraid of heights at all," she said, moving towards the seat against the wall, because if she couldn't admire the view she could at least indulge in a little bit of people-watching.

"No," Napoleon agreed, holding the _other_ seat out for her expectantly.

She sighed and sat with ill-grace. Really, this date wasn't going at all the way she'd hoped.

After that it did pick up, at least. Napoleon was always good to talk to, and always seemed at least as interested in hearing about her than in talking about himself, which was a quality so many men seemed to lack. And the food was delicious – everything from the seared scallops, right through to the strawberry crème brulee, which was wonderful if, apparently, a little messy.

"You've got strawberry sauce on you," she said laughing, pointing to the little red dot on his shirt.

He glanced down and immediately rolled to the side, getting out of the way just before the bullet came through those large glass windows and buried itself in the wall behind him. "Get down," he said sharply, shoving her down and under the table as he crouched behind it, moving forwards, his gun in his hand, just as the group of men in black ski masks burst through the elevator behind her, and Napoleon was already in position to aim and fire.

Well, she thought insanely to herself, as she hid and quivered in fear. That was the last time she tried to argue with him about seating arrangements.

* * *

 **8) Really, they're not going to marry you.**

This was April's second date with Augustus and already she was fairly certain that there wasn't going to be a third. She'd been taken in by a handsome face and just a delicious hint of the mysterious, but the truth was, the head programmer wasn't anywhere near as interesting as she'd hoped – or as he thought he was.

She was already trying to think of a good excuse to cut the evening short, toying with her drink and wondering if he'd be offended if she said she had a headache. She had been in medical with a concussion earlier in the week – it was hardly implausible.

"So how long are you planning on staying with Section II?" Augustus asked, cutting through her thoughts completely.

She blinked. "Mandatory retirement from field work is forty," she reminded him. Everyone knew that.

He laughed. "Well, yes, but obviously _you_ aren't going to stay that long," he said. "It's different for the men but for you? All your best years would be behind you by the time you're forty. You don't want to waste your life running around with a gun in your hand, do you?"

"Oh?" She let the smile spread widely across her face. "You think I'm wasting my life?"

Impressively he seemed completely oblivious of the danger. "Oh, I've no doubt you're having fun, but you playing at being a secret agent is no different than these young girls who spend their time running around the clubs, or trying to have careers like men. You don't want to end up a dried up and childless hag by the time you're forty, do you?"

April leaned forwards across the table, her chin resting in her hand, contemplating just how many ways she could kill him right now and make it look like an accident. "So what do you suggest?"

He looked flattered to be asked. "Well, obviously you want to find a good man as soon as possible," he said. "You're hardly a spring chicken even now, after all. You need to get married, settled down – maybe transfer to Section IV until you have children."

"And then?" she asked, her voice bright as a winter's day. In Siberia.

He laughed again. It had a sort of braying quality to it. She wondered if anyone had ever pointed out just how much like a donkey he really sounded. "Oh, well, when a woman has children all other thoughts go out of her head," he said fondly. "Trust me, I've seen it happen a hundred times before. By the time you've got a baby on your hip you won't want to worry your pretty head about UNCLE or THRUSH or any of it."

"Mmm," she said, and it wasn't like she'd never considered children – she just didn't think they were the sole reason for her existence. "And is that why you asked me out? Because you think I'm going to marry you, give up my job, and give you children?"

For the first time, he seemed to register that she maybe wasn't completely on board with this plan. "Well, not right away, obviously," he temporised.

"Never," she corrected. "Not with you. Now, if you don't mind, this dried-up, childless hag is going to go back to wasting her life." She stood up, grabbing her purse and swinging it round and – entirely coincidentally – knocking the pitcher of ice water off the table so it poured squarely onto his groin. "Oops," she smiled. "Clumsy me. Sorry."

He made a pitiful noise as she turned away and walked out, already taking her communicator out of her purse. "Open Channel D, please," she said.

"Slater here," Mark replied almost immediately.

"It's me, darling," she said. "Are you busy?"

"It's Friday night," he pointed out. "And sadly, no. I'm not busy."

"Good," she said decisively. "Meet me in our usual spot. I'll bring the wine if you bring the ice-cream."

"Your date went that well, huh?" he asked wryly. "Alright, luv. See you soon."

She smiled. At least there was one man who never let her down.

* * *

 **9) They have scars. Be prepared and don't make a fuss.**

Simone closed her eyes, delighting in the feeling of Illya's mouth slowly moving down her neck, his hands moving sensually across her body. This felt like paradise, and her hands seemed to reach up of their own accord, fumbling to unbutton his shirt, feeling that they were both wearing far too many clothes for their current situation. Eventually, she managed to tug his shirt off altogether and she sat up, her hands running across his bare shoulders until...she stopped, feeling the raised, rough skin beneath her fingers.

That wasn't right. She leaned forwards, peering around to see his back and there were red, raised welts all down him, bright and angry and ugly.

"A small souvenir of the past week," he said dismissively. "They will fade soon enough."

But they were there now. And now that she was looking properly she could see the knot of scar tissue on his chest, just below his heart, and the faded silver lines across his side, and she felt sick just looking at them. Oh, he knew it was hardly his fault, but she looked at each of them and they were _wrong._ They weren't meant to be there, they were a hideous mark on him, a reminder of reality with much the same effect as a bucket of cold water. She hated thinking that he'd been hurt, that he'd been in danger so many times.

Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away quickly.

"Simone?" he asked, sounding alarmed as she stood up, searching blindly for her shoes.

"I should go," she said breathlessly. "I thought...I can't deal with this. I'm sorry, Illya."

He reached out a hand towards her, but she pushed it away and headed hurriedly for the door. She couldn't even bear to look at him – she knew that if she could, she'd burst out crying and she might never stop.

"If it's something I've done..." he called after her.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, it's not you, it's me. I just saw your scars and...I'm sorry. Goodbye."

He didn't try and stop her.

* * *

 **10) You are never going to know them the way you want to. Just remember why they're worth it.**

Rebecca walked into the commissary in search of Napoleon and saw him sitting at a table with Illya, April and Mark. Evidently someone had just said something funny, because all four were laughing uproariously. Well, Illya was just smiling slightly, which was probably the same thing for him.

She slowly approached, just in time to catch Mark talking. "Well, he was just standing there holding the harpoon gun," he said. "What else was I supposed to say?"

"Almost anything, darling," April told him. "I'm not sure I blame him for shooting at you anymore."

"What's the joke?" Rebecca asked, smiling as she reached the table.

The conversation seemed to stop immediately. "Nothing," Napoleon said. "Nothing actually funny anyway. Am I late?"

He was smiling at her but it was different than the way he'd been smiling earlier. No less warm, no less genuine and certainly no less inviting, but maybe just a little less open. It was the same way he smiled when she asked something too personal, and sometimes 'too personal' could be as simple as asking all the simple first date questions. He could talk about himself and never reveal a thing.

"No," she said, slightly apologetically. "No, I'm early. I thought I would come and meet you."

"Fantastic." He stood up and nodded to the other Section II agents. "I'll see you later." He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

She accepted and they walked out of the commissary. "So where are you taking me this weekend?" she asked.

Now all his attention was on her, his eyes dark and warm and fascinating. "How does a lodge in the mountains sound?" he asked. "Champagne waiting on ice, a roaring fire, a pot of fondue, our very own hot tub with a panoramic view...just the two of us."

His voice was like sweet melted chocolate. She could just listen to him for hours. "That sounds heavenly," she said with a sigh.

"Good," he said reaching out and brushing a lock of her hair back, the gesture intent and intimate. "I have plans for this weekend."

And right now, she wanted nothing more than to enjoy every second of those plans.

Maybe she'd never exactly know him. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy every minute of him she could get.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, if you have any thoughts please let me know. :)**


	12. Sympathies

**A/N: Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII. The prompts were purple and policy. Everyone should have a policy on purple.**

* * *

Napoleon stared at the kid behind the desk. "What do you mean I can't go in?" he asked blankly. "There's got to be some mistake here, you said yourself we were expected."

"Um." The kid squirmed nervously. "I'm sorry, Mr Solo, there was an issue with your background check, and it's standard policy in these cases to conduct deeper checks. I'm going to need you to wait."

"My background check?" Napoleon repeated incredulously. "What do the FBI have against my background all of a sudden?"

If anything, the kid just looked more wretched. "Well, I mean, I don't run these checks, but it says here that you're an associate of known communists."

He blinked. "Communists? Where did that come from? Did it say who - "

Illya leaned over and held out his hand. " - Illya Nikovich Kuryakin," he said to Napoleon. "Since apparently we have never met."

Oh. Well, yes, alright that had been a stupid question. "I assumed that since you're already cleared they wouldn't count you," he said with as much dignity as he could.

"Apparently they do," Illya said. He looked at the kid. "I am the evil communist in question," he said dryly. "I take it that it is pointless to ask whether I passed your background check?"

The kid stared wide-eyed. At this point, Napoleon almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

He sighed. "Look. Why don't you get your superior down here and we'll get this cleared up. Alright?"

"Alright," the kid agreed, nodding vigorously. "Do you want to just take a seat over there?" He pointed to the bench by the door hopefully.

"So how does it feel to be an enemy of the state?" Illya asked, sounding disturbingly upbeat.

Napoleon looked at him. "You know, I was in the Pentagon last week," he said. "I was playing bodyguard for a US senator two months ago. But apparently I'm not trustworthy enough for the FBI office in Anchorage. I guess Joseph McCarthy is alive and well and living in Alaska."

Illya considered that for a moment. "I'm not sure it counts as a witchhunt, when you are actually sharing a hotel room with a card-carrying member of the CPSU."

Possibly not. But he didn't feel like letting the facts get in the way of his annoyance. Also, "Please tell me you're not actually carrying your card?"

"I doubt it would make matters worse if I were," Illya said.

"I doubt it would make things better," Napoleon retorted. "Why doesn't this bother you more?"

"I've been in this situation before," Illya said with a shrug. "Why does it bother you so much?"

"Because we've got a job to do and neither of us have done anything wrong." he said. "And because they already know who we are and have our credentials. We already have all the information we need, meeting Kimmett at all was just a courtesy, to keep the locals in the loop, remember?"

"Ah," Illya nodded. "So it's a matter of principle?"

"Exactly," Napoleon agreed.

Illya smiled in a way that Napoleon found particularly irritating. "Then I wish I had brought popcorn."

Probably fortunately he was saved from having to reply to _that_ by the advent of a man with an unnaturally purple face who approached them with a look of apoplectic aggravation. "Now, look here," he boomed before he'd even got within ten feet of them. "I'm a very busy man. How dare you summon me just because you're not happy with our security policies?"

"I think we've found our McCarthy impersonator," he murmured to Illya, before standing up with a careless smile. "Special Agent Kimmett, I presume?" he asked, not waiting for the answer. "Napoleon Solo, UNCLE, and this is my partner Illya Kuryakin."

"Yes, I know who you are," Kimmett snapped. "The commie and the commie sympathiser. Sending the two of you here was a calculated insult on your superior's part."

He raised an eyebrow at the description but carefully let it go. "No," he disagreed. "We're the top two agents in the New York office. Sending us was a sign of just how serious UNCLE is taking your request for assistance. Running a background check and then telling your assistant to leave us cooling our heels here in order to indulge your little power trip? _That's_ a calculated insult."

"One that you are likely to regret," Illya added, apparently deciding that in the absence of popcorn he might as well join in. "Your director is anxious to foster stronger ties with our organisation. When we report that your actions forced us to investigate on our own with no assistance from the bureau, he is likely to be somewhat upset with you."

"I'd say that's an understatement," Napoleon murmured. He took a deep breath and smiled, open and conciliatory. "Look. Why don't we all take a step back and start over. You invite us up to your office, find some good old-fashioned American cookies for my partner, tell us what you know, and we'll tell you what we think THRUSH is doing here and we'll make sure to keep you up to date with our investigation. How does that sound?"

"I don't need your sort of help," Kimmett said. "UNCLE needs to show more respect to the FBI. This is America, we're the law here, not you."

Well, he'd tried at least. That would be something he could tell Mr Waverly if asked. "Alright, then," he said. "We can be contacted at the Anchorage Grand, if you should happen to change your mind."

"Either about the help or the cookies," Illya said without a flicker of humour showing on his face. "I am partial to oatmeal raisin."

Kimmett made a noise of disgust and turned away.

They shared a glance and a shrug and walked out.

"So now you're a communist sympathiser," Illya said contemplatively.

"Uh huh?" Napoleon said, waiting for it.

"I just think I could use a little sympathy now and then, that's all," Illya went on.

"You hate sympathy, remember?" Napoleon said easily. "Now come on. We've wasted enough time. Let's get to work."

"Alright, but I was promised cookies."


	13. Collateral

**A/N: Written for the picture challenge on Section VII on Livejournal.**

* * *

It was noon by the time Napoleon finally made it back to the small farm, The sun was uncomfortably warm, but Maria was still out at the woodwork table in the yard, sawing two planks. He limped slowly towards her, and she looked up as he approached, gladly laying her saw aside. But of course she was looking past him. And there was no one there.

"Where is Andreas?" she asked anxiously. "He went after you, to guide you to the old mine. He was worried that you wouldn't be able to find it on your own. Did you see him?"

He swallowed hard, remembering the ambush on the bridge, remembered Andreas shooting at him, laughing like it was a game. "He found me," he agreed. "Maria, I'm sorry. There's something I need to tell you. Maybe you should sit down."

Her face was pale. "No!" she said sharply. "You tell me now. Where is my husband?"

The awful thing was, he really didn't think she had any idea what her husband had been up to. She'd been the one to make him welcome here, already suspicious of the THRUSH incomers, and when he'd warned them both that THRUSH might have paid off some of the town to keep watch for them and do their dirty work, she'd been loudly incredulous that anyone would do that. He tried to remember what Andreas had said in that moment, how his face had looked, but he'd been turned away. If there had been a clue he had missed it and now it was far too late. Some spy he was. This was why the CEA kept saying he needed a partner. To see the things he overlooked, to watch his back. For once, the idea almost seemed attractive.

"I'm sorry," he said again steadily, his hand pressed against the bullet wound in his leg. "Andreas is dead. When THRUSH retreated, they flooded the tunnels. Andreas went after them - I tried to reach him in time, but Marcos killed him."

There was nothing there that was a lie. She didn't need to know what her husband had done, or that he'd been trying to make his escape with his THRUSH paymasters. That would help no one, and it would only hurt her.

She made a harsh choking sound, and her hands flew to her mouth. "No!" she said. "No. He can't be dead. I won't believe it."

"I'm sorry," he said for a third time, as though the words would somehow matter this time. "I saw it with my own eyes. If it helps at all, Marcos is dead as well. I killed him myself."

"Why would that help?" she demanded, eyeing him with scorn. "I don't want revenge, I want my husband back. This is your fault!"

"Maria..." He reached a hand out towards her, intent on offering comfort, but she pushed it aside and turned away, shoving the bundle of wood off the table with a cry of loss and anger.

"Oh!" Immediately she was crouched over, picking it up, and he stooped to help her, biting his tongue to stifle the cry of pain as he bent his leg. "This was to be a crib," she said blankly, her hand hovering lost over her belly.

He froze. Oh, God. "You're expecting a child?"

"I am due in autumn," she said, grinding the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Andreas was so excited. He's always wanted to be a father. He says he wants to give our child everything. I told him we don't have the money, but we will make do, just like our parents and our grandparents always did."

But Andreas hadn't been content with that, Napoleon realised dully. He'd gone to THRUSH. And in the end, that choice - wanting to be able to provide a better life for his child - had killed him.

"How can I raise our child alone?" she asked despairingly. "He was supposed to be here. We were going to be a family. Are you _sure_ it was him? Perhaps you are mistaken, perhaps it was another - "

" - no," he said, catching hold of her hand and squeezing it lightly. "I'm sorry. There was no mistake."

She held his hand and cried for a while, and he rubbed her shoulder and said nothing, thinking furiously.

As her tears dried, for the moment at least, he drew his hand back, standing up slowly. "Listen, Maria," he said intently. "I'm going to be honest with you. Do you remember that I told you that THRUSH might pay local people to help them? Well, they approached Andreas, and he agreed, at my request. He infiltrated the base - he was my eyes and ears on the inside. He told me that he wanted to help make the world safer for his family. I thought he meant for you, but now I see he was thinking of the baby. He died trying to make a better world for you and your child."

There was no one left alive who could call him a liar.

For a long moment she just stared at him, and then the expected fury crossed her face. "You! This is all your fault," she screamed, standing up and advancing towards him. "We welcomed you into your home - we shared our food, we answered your questions. And this is how you repay us? By getting my Andreas mixed up in your silly spy games, by stealing away my husband, my child's father? You...you're a coward! And a monster!"

He stood his ground, holding his hands up, not hoping to appease her so much as just give her pause. "I know. I know all that. But listen to me. He was doing this for you. And I promised my organisation would take care of you if anything happened to him. There'll be money - think of it as a pension of sorts. I'll make sure it gets to you."

"Money." She snorted contemptuously. "That's all you Americans ever think about. Tell me, Mr Solo. Do you really think money is a replacement for a father?"

"No," he said truthfully. "Of course not. But take it anyway. Use it to give your child everything that Andreas wanted him to have. Build a good life, for both of you. And tell your son that his father was a good man, a brave man who wanted to give him the world."

Every child deserved to believe his father was a hero. He buried thoughts of his own father with an effort.

"I will," she said. "And I will teach him to spit when he says your name." She spat then, narrowly missing Napoleon's shoe. "Now, get out of here and don't come back. Oh, I'll take your organisation's money, but not from _you_. If I see you around here again - " She snatched up the saw and brandished it at him threateningly. " - I'll cut you in two, like the worm you are."

He didn't doubt she meant every word. He couldn't blame her either. And still he didn't move. "Is there someone I can contact for you?" he asked. "You said you had a sister in town, do you want me to bring her here?"

"Go!" she commanded, narrowly missing jabbing him in the chest with the saw. "I don't need your guilt or your pity. Go before I kill you."

He turned and walked away, gritting his teeth with each painful step. The sister should be easy enough to track down. Someone should know; she shouldn't be left alone.

Peterson - the CEA - was going to call him soft for this, he knew. Wanting to provide for the family of the man who shot him? Even Napoleon would admit that was unusual. But there were too many people caught up in...in these spy games, their lives ruined by these massive conflicts they had no real part of. There was a generous fund set up to take care of innocents hurt by their fight with THRUSH, Napoleon knew. Peterson would laugh, but he wouldn't take much persuading. That was part of what made UNCLE an organisation Napoleon could believe in.

He just wished there was more he could do.

It was going to be a long trip back home.


	14. The Office Cat

**A/N:** **Pretty much a direct sequel to Another One of Those Days from a few chapters ago, with the fish. Because spikesgirl58 pointed out that a couple of episodes later, there is mention of an office cat. And also a response to the Short Affair prompt on Section VII - the words were grey and howl.  
**

* * *

The office was filled with women when Napoleon walked in, which wasn't something he would normally have a problem with. However, in this case they were unexpectedly all gathered around Illya's desk and making 'awww' noises - a reaction he _had_ heard directed at his partner before, but not generally to his face.

"What's going on here?" he asked.

The crowd parted with looks of awkward guilt, revealing Illya sitting at his desk, holding a small, grey cat with a bandaged paw.

"Ah, good morning, Napoleon," he said, a glint in his eye that Napoleon didn't trust. "This time he really did follow me home. Can I keep him?"

He sighed. Was it too late to go to Mr Waverly and demand that the Soviet government send another agent? "You know, I let you keep the fish with the express understanding that you wouldn't bring home a cat or a canary next."

"I was not planning on keeping Shpion in our office," Illya explained as though that was obvious. "That would be cruel."

"Of course you already named it," he said resignedly.

"He's going to be the office cat," Belinda explained. "Like a mascot."

"We don't need a mascot," he said firmly. "And if we did, it wouldn't be a cat."

"He will help keep the mice away," Illya offered.

Napoleon stared at him. "And have you noticed many mice running around headquarters, tovarisch?"

"No, but if Mr Davies continues leaving plates of biscuits to go rotten in his office while he is away, it's only a matter of time," Illya argued.

"Biscuits?" Suzie blinked.

"Cookies," Napoleon translated. "And I think getting a cat might be overreacting to hypothetical mice."

"He'll be good company on nightshift," Linda said. "It can get very lonely sitting monitoring the relays by yourself."

He raised an eyebrow. "However the last thing you need is a cat distracting you from an agent needing help."

Illya swung round to look at him, the cat taking advantage of his movement to climb up his chest and perch on his shoulder. "As I recall, you have spent some late nights in communications yourself," he pointed out. "So either you need to concede that the ladies of Section IV are professional enough to avoid being distracted, or you need to admit that you think your own charms less distracting than a cat."

Everyone was looking at him. So when the intercom summoned him and Illya to Mr Waverly's office, that was something of a relief.

"So where did you find him?" he asked as they walked. Illya had thankfully agreed to leave the cat with Suzie for the moment.

"Outside Del Floria's," Illya said. "He'd fallen in some broken glass. He could prove useful. Historically, Siamese cats were used as bodyguards for royal princesses."

Napoleon looked at him. "Well, I can see two problems with that. Firstly, we don't have any princesses. Secondly, that isn't a Siamese cat."

"That's not the point," Illya argued.

"Yes it is," Napoleon said. "Or else I might as well say that we should eat him because historically cats were used as a food source in Japan."

"I would not recommend it," Illya said seriously. "Cat meat tends to be tough and chewy."

He stared. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand exactly when Illya had eaten cat, but he stopped himself in time. It wasn't like he'd expect to get an answer. Oh, he could hazard a guess or two, but it would boil down to "When I was starving."

And little hints of revelation like that did tend to make it difficult for him to keep arguing. "You are extremely aggravating," he said with feeling.

Illya nodded gravely. "Thank you."

Mr Waverly was waiting for them inside. "Gentlemen," he said, nodding to them. "Come in and take a seat."

They did. And the door was hardly closed behind them when the air was split with an unearthly wailing noise.

"What the devil is that?" Mr Waverly demanded. "Something's howling out there."

Napoleon exchanged a meaningful look with Illya. This was one of the many reasons why animals shouldn't be allowed in the workplace. The fish, at least, were quiet.

"Yowling, sir," Illya said resignedly. "Cats don't howl, they yowl."

"Cats?" Mr Waverly repeated, standing up and crossing to open the door.

Just as Napoleon had expected, the cat was sitting forlornly outside the door, howling - or yowling - the place down.

Mr Waverly stared down at it for a second. "Quiet," he said sternly.

Probably Napoleon shouldn't be so surprised that the noise stopped at once. After all, Mr Waverly did have a way of commanding respect, was it really so astounding that it worked on animals too?

He watched as his boss bent down and picked the cat up by the scruff of its neck and inspected it solemnly. "Now where in the world did you come from?" he asked.

"Illya found him outside Del Floria's," Napoleon volunteered. "He'd cut himself on some broken glass, probably left over from the, uh, incident yesterday. Which does sort of make him our responsibility."

Illya blinked at him and he shrugged.

"Yes, I suppose it does," Mr Waverly agreed thoughtfully. "You know, there was a cat in one of our outposts during the war. An engaging little beast, and a devil for going after rats. I was quite heartbroken when he strayed into the minefield one day." He returned to his seat, the cat perched apparently happily in his lap. "What's his name?"

"Shpion, sir," Illya said.

Mr Waverly gave a snort of laughter. "Very appropriate. Alright, find him a place to sleep, organise a rota to make sure he's fed, and find him a collar with a badge that will keep him in the right areas and we'll say no more about it. Now, where were we?"

And that was apparently that. Huh. He wondered just what - or rather, who - he could persuade to follow _him_ home...?


	15. I Spy

**Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII - the prompt words were white and traffic**

* * *

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'S'."

"Napoleon, you do remember that I previously worked for KGB?"

"You ever notice that you only ever drop the definite article when referring to the KGB?"

"KGB is KGB."

"I think I could ponder _that_ statement for hours. Also, the KGB does not begin with 's' in any language."

"I am aware of that. My point was, I know of many, many ways to kill you and dispose of your body so that no one would ever be aware."

"Mmm hmm. But do you know something beginning with 'S'?"

"Snow. It has been snow for the past six hours. It is going to continue to be snow for as long as we are stuck in this traffic."

"Wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Wrong."

"There is nothing else out there. I can see nothing but white and, vaguely, the car in front. Unless that is a mirage."

"At this stage, that's entirely possible. So. As I was saying. I spy with my little eye something beginning with 'S'."

"I do not see why you are punishing me. I am neither responsible for the weather, nor for our current predicament."

"You know, I didn't want to go to Wisconsin in the first place. And when I saw the weather forecast, I wanted to go even less. But I figured since I was bringing my own self-professed cold-weather survival expert, there wouldn't be a problem. And this morning, my cold-weather survival expert said we would be able to drive to Marinette in this blizzard with no problems."

"Cold weather _survival_ expert. Are you surviving?"

"I'm not happy."

"That's hardly the same thing. And were it not for me, we would not have the thermos of coffee or the sandwiches, and you would be even less happy."

"And I'd be more happy if the coffee contained cream and sugar."

"If you wanted it made to your standards, you should have made it yourself."

"A little consideration is all I ask."

"We have known each other far too long for consideration."

"This is how marriages break down."

"We should have been able to drive to Marinette with no problems."

"Right."

"I could have walked it in this time."

"If you want to get out and try it, partner, be my guest."

"The traffic has not moved for over two hours now."

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed."

"Sarcasm ill suits you. I was just trying to suggest that either there is an accident somewhere ahead of us, or else your countrymen handle bad weather incredibly poorly."

"This is Wisconsin. I think they're used to it. Something beginning with 'S' that is not snow. And before you remind me of your KGB past again, let me remind you, pal, I was CIA and I know plenty of ways to kill you too."

"Does it disturb you that we are recreating the cold war in miniature in a Dodge pick up truck?"

"Why? Did you want a classier venue?"

"At the very least, a warmer one. Speedometer."

"Oh, so now you decide to play? No."

"..."

"So how would you do it?"

"Do what?"

"How would you kill me and dispose of the body?"

"Napoleon, I have never found you _that_ irritating."

"Just suppose."

"Well, assuming I did not have to worry about the wrath of Mr Waverly - "

" - oh, heaven forfend - "

" - I suppose I would keep it simple. A quick blow to the head to induce unconsciousness, and then I would put your body in the trunk of the car and drive back to that lake we passed a mile or so back. It would be easy enough to weaken the ice and then push the car out onto it. In this weather, after the car had sunk, the ice would freeze over again very quickly. Assuming the lake is deep enough, even when summer comes, no one would ever find you."

"And then you're left out here without a car?"

"There is a traffic jam. It would be easy enough to hitch a ride on the pretext of having suffered a breakdown. Of course, I suppose I would still find it impossible to _get_ anywhere...why? How would you kill me?"

"I suppose I'd just shoot you."

"Hardly subtle."

"Well, that depends. The way I see it, I spend so much time in your company that opportunities to kill you crop up all the time. And you trust me, so it would, after all, be easy. So if I was going to kill you, I'd do so from a distance, so no one would suspect me. A sniper rifle, from the roof of the building opposite yours. I would have the perfect shot of the entrance to your building. All I would have to do is wait for you to walk out in the morning and then take my shot."

"I...find the amount of thought you've put into this disturbing."

"..."

"Napoleon...have you ever killed a friend?"

"..."

"..."

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'S'."

"Napoleon..."

"I don't begin with 'S'. And anyway, I can't see myself."

"I am sorry. That was tactless."

"Right."

"You know I've... Блин. I understand."

"I know."

"..."

"..."

"Sky."

"We can't see the sky. It's just white."

"It's there somewhere."

"I don't think you've quite grasped the rules here."

"Steering wheel."

"That's two words. The conventions of the game dictate that I would have had to say 'SW' for steering wheel to count."

"Game? I thought this was a time honoured ritual to annoy your fellow travellers."

"Well, it's that too."

"Cigarette lighter."

"Now I know you're messing with me."

"Perhaps...ah. The car in front is moving at last."

"Good. Maybe we'll get to Marinette before nightfall."

"When we do, I'll buy you a coffee. With cream and sugar."

"Good. Illya? Let's...just try hard not to have to kill each other."

"Oh, the small demands of friendship."

"Illya..."

"I know. Of course."


	16. Always Expect A Miracle

**A/N: Written for the pic fic challenge on Section VII**

* * *

Napoleon woke on the morning of his thirty-fourth birthday to the feeling of ice cold water pouring down the back of his neck.

"Urgh!" Shivering violently, he shoved himself as far away from the wall as the chains would allow him, gasping slightly as his ribs protested. He'd hoped yesterday that they were just bruised, but now he was pretty sure they were cracked at the very least. "That was unpleasant," he said, after a second. "Is it too much to ask that THRUSH builds a dungeon that's waterproof?"

"THRUSH did not build this dungeon," Claude – his fellow captive and UNCLE agent said tiredly, looking at him from across the room where he was chained to the other wall. "It was an original part of the castle that stood here before THRUSH built that monstrosity of a base upon the ruins."

Right. No discussing the architecture. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his arms. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work. When he finally got out of here, he was going to be sore for _days._

"Do you think De Meyer will come for us today?" Claude asked, subdued.

He winced, remembering the pain of yesterday. "Almost certainly," he said, lightly probing his missing crown with his tongue. Ow. "He seemed quite intent on getting that computer tape." And once he realised Napoleon had already destroyed it, he was likely to be fairly angry. He sighed. "You know, it's my birthday today."

"Happy birthday," Claude said. "I'd wish you many more to come, but I would say that's looking unlikely right now."

"Why is it my fate to always be locked up in the company of a pessimist?" he asked wryly. "We're getting out of here. My partner will be along soon to find us."

"No one knows where we are," Claude pointed out.

He shrugged and used the movement to try and stretch his shoulders some. "That's never stopped him before. You know, I had plans for tonight. There was going to be party in Bellisima in New York, and I was taking the gorgeous Lisanne as my date. I'd already bought a new tuxedo. Being here is really inconvenient."

Claude stared. "We're likely to be tortured and executed, and you're worried about missing your birthday party?" He shook his head. "Americans."

"I told you," he said nonchalantly. "My partner will get us out of here. As a matter of fact, I don't know what's keeping him. And surely your partner must be looking for us too?"

"Probably," Claude allowed, stiffly. "Jean is a good agent, but I do not expect him to work miracles."

"Ah, well, that's your mistake," Napoleon said with a smile. "Always expect miracles."

Right on cue the door behind him opened, and he craned his neck trying to see, but a second later it was De Meyer who stepped into his line of sight. Too bad – if he had to be rescued, he would prefer to make it look as though it had been under his control all along.

"Mr Solo," De Meyer said, his smile revealing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. "I trust you slept well?"

"Oh yes," he said, returning the smile unconcernedly. "I did, as it happens. Sleeping standing up is supposed to be very good for your back."

De Meyer's smile didn't even flicker."I'm glad to hear it. Now, are you willing to tell me what you have done with my computer tape?"

"Tape?" he repeated innocently. "No...no, it doesn't ring a bell. I'm sorry."

"You will be," De Meyer said ominously, and Napoleon let the flicker of amusement at the line show on his face. "You know, I was reading the information we have on you, and apparently it's your birthday today, is that right?"

"So they tell me," he agreed.

"Well, happy birthday." He walked out of sight for a moment and then reappeared with a collection of sharp, narrow knives. "I thought we might celebrate with some party games. Say a variant on Pin the Tail on the Donkey?"

"Alright," he said agreeably. "Why don't you be the donkey?"

De Meyer ignored him. "You there," he said, raising his voice and calling over to one of the guards out of Napoleon's sight. "You can go first."

"Yes, sir," a crisp, Russian-accented voice replied.

Napoleon kept his smile entirely to himself.

Illya stepped into view a second later, dressed in what looked like a remarkably fresh and starched THRUSH uniform. Huh. He must have found the supply closet. He took a knife from De Meyer and turned and walked towards Napoleon.

"Just stick that wherever you think best," De Meyer said eagerly.

Illya's eyes swept over Napoleon, taking careful note of all the damage. "Of course, sir," he said evenly, and Napoleon could see the danger in his eyes.

De Meyer never had a chance to see it coming; Illya span around in one easy movement and a second later the knife was buried in the THRUSH leader's throat.

Napoleon sighed, even as Illya snatched up his rifle and fired it at the doorway and, presumably, the other guards. "You know, it's a good thing we didn't want to ask him any questions," he said pointedly.

"He asked," Illya told him, coming back with the key in hand and getting to work on the chains."To refuse would have been rude."

As his arms came free, he bit back the groan of relief. Oh, he'd been right; he was going to be feeling this for days. But he nodded reassuringly at the concerned question in Illya's eyes. He could make it. He'd be fine.

"I take it you are Claude?" Illya asked, going over to help the other agent. "Jean is upstairs, locating the computer."

"Already taken care of," Napoleon told him promptly, while he did his best to fix his suit. It was a lost cause. "I destroyed the tape before we were captured."

"I'm glad to hear something went right," Illya said snippily.

"Thanks," Claude said, as he landed on his feet, rubbing his wrists painfully.

"You're welcome," Illya said.

Napoleon smiled. "I told you to expect miracles," he murmured.

"I'm glad to hear you think of me so highly," Illya called, bending over De Meyer's body. He came up with the man's revolver. "Ah!" He threw it over to Napoleon. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"For me?" He grinned broadly. "You shouldn't have."

"Now come on. There's been a change of plans, Mr Waverly wants this base destroyed. I left my explosives in a supply closet upstairs."

* * *

They met up with Claude's partner upstairs, and he and the French agents held off the THRUSH guards still milling around, apparently somewhat lost without their leader, while Illya set the explosive charges with his usual meticulous focus.

"Why does that matter?" Claude asked impatiently, when Illya planted a charge on the outside wall, then looked at it contemplatively, shook his head, and moved it into the corner.

"It matters," Napoleon said hastily, before Illya could start the explanation of exactly _why_ it mattered. "Now, let's get out of here."

They stole a jeep from the garage and made their escape, but about five hundred yards down the road, Illya swerved the car around and pulled on the brake. "That should be far enough," he said, pulling out a radio detonator. There was a definite gleam in his eyes.

They were facing the base, and a second after Illya pressed the button there was a rumbling sound and a short burst of flames licked the sky.

Napoleon frowned. "That was it?" he asked. "That's not up to your usual standards, tovarisch."

"Watch," Illya said, still gazing back towards the base.

Napoleon looked around just in time to see a pillar of flame billow up into the air, and an instant later the sky was alive with fireworks, bright flashes of colour exploding against the dark clouds. It seemed to go on forever.

As he gazed at the unexpected display, Illya passed him a napkin and he carefully unfolded it to reveal a slightly battered cupcake. "From the kitchen," Illya explained. "I don't have any candles, I'm afraid."

"And the fireworks?" he asked, wondering.

"I found them on the roof," Illya said, a serene little smile playing around his mouth. "For Bastille Day, I assume. If I'd had a little more time and a little more material, I could have written your initials in the sky." He paused. "It's not exactly regulation," he added, with a slightly wary glance towards the other agents.

Jean grinned. "What isn't regulation?" he asked. "I didn't see a thing."

"A perfectly unremarkable detonation," Claude agreed, smiling for the first time since Napoleon had met him.

Illya looked over at him and smiled. "Happy birthday, Napoleon."

"Thank you," he said, taking a bite of cake as the last of the fireworks exploded above them. It wasn't Bellissima. But it wasn't such a bad birthday after all.


	17. Lab Safety

**Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII on Livejournal. The prompt words were white and dilute and the fic was too long.**

* * *

"There is no need to rush, Dr Baitman," Illya pointed out, wincing slightly as the toxicologist banged the jars of chemicals together.

Baitman looked up at him unpleasantly. "Oh no? I thought you Section II boys were always in a rush? And I thought you wanted the chemicals in this device neutralised as soon as possible?"

He did; he'd been wanting to take the new THRUSH dispersal device apart to see just how it worked. That didn't mean he thought they shouldn't be taking reasonable precautions. "I just think we should be careful."

"Careful?" Baitman snorted. "With one of you apes wandering around here, dragging in God-knows-what from the field and expecting me to work on it at this time of night? Let me tell you, _Dr_ Kuryakin, Dr Franklin might let you use this lab as you see fit, but if I had my way, you wouldn't be allowed within a mile of the place."

"As my office is only two storeys up, that would be most inconvenient," he said dryly. Then, as Dr Baitman took the experimental neutralising compound off the heat and moved it towards the panel on the THRUSH device, his eyes widened. "Wait!" he said, holding out a hand. "You will need to dilute that first!"

Dr Baitman looked at him scornfully. "You might know a couple of things about physics, Dr Kuryakin, but chemistry is _my_ field." He poured the liquid directly into the chemical reservoir. Illya threw himself forwards, not in time to stop him, but at least in time to shove him to the ground and throw himself on top, sheltering him from the ensuing explosion.

As explosions went, it wasn't so big, but an instant later, the air was filled with a soft, white foam. He was on his feet before Baitman had finished swearing, sprinting across the room and sliding to smash his hand into the emergency button. A split second later, an alarm split the air and shutters slammed down across all the doors and vents. Whatever this was, this mix of THRUSH and UNCLE chemicals, it wasn't getting out of the lab.

He looked around the room quickly. Two scientists had been working in here, apart from him and Baitman. Thankfully they were all wearing masks and goggles...but the foam was falling on their bare skin and with every drop that hit, he could feel a strange sort of tingling. "Decontamination procedures," he said, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears. "Quickly." If he died in a stupid lab accident within headquarters, Napoleon would never let him hear the end of it. For some reason, the thought struck him as insanely funny, and he only managed to stifle his laugh with an effort.

Baitman was still sitting on the floor, gazing around himself vapidly. He looked ridiculous, Illya thought.

"Are we...poisoned?" Dr Montgomery said slowly. "Because I don't feel poisoned. Actually, I feel really good."

Yes. Really good about summed it up. He couldn't remember feeling this happy.

The foam swirled around in the air in front of him. It looked a little like snow. Absently, he pulled his mask off and opened his mouth, letting a little melt on his tongue. It sort of tasted like snow as well. If snow was fizzy.

The intercom suddenly blared into life, the buzzing voice harsh and unpleasant. With a sigh, he drew his gun and shot it, silencing it very neatly. That was better. Of course, they were still under surveillance. He'd always hated being watched. He looked round at the camera on the far wall, then theatrically covered his eyes with his left hand and shot the lens out. Then, just for fun, he switched hands and shot the other camera out with the gun in his left hand instead.

Dr Montgomery and Dr Ndebele both gave him a round of applause. "I didn't know you were ambidextrous," Montgomery remarked. "Did you know that people who are ambidextrous are more likely to develop schizophrenia?"

"It's not natural," Illya assured him. "KGB broke the fingers in my right hand so I'd have to learn." Normally that wasn't the sort of thing he shared. Normally, remembering that would make him miserable and angry. But right now, he didn't feel like anything could put a dent in his good mood.

"This is amazing," Baitman crowed, stumbling to his feet, his arms stretched wide.

Well, anything except that, perhaps. This whole thing was Baitman's fault, it hardly seemed fair that he got to share in this joyful experience. With an unholy giggle, Illya took careful aim, and shot a sleep dart directly into Baitman's posterior. The man went down with an undignified yelp and, just for good measure, Illya shot him a couple more times.

* * *

Eventually, security had triggered the decontamination procedures from outside and broken into the lab through the barricades he'd erected. They'd dragged out Baitman and the others, but they'd given Illya a wide berth - he wasn't sure if it was because of the gun in his hand or the experiments he'd set up across the floor, although certainly the first purple-hued explosion that the clumsy Section III agent had managed to trigger had seemed to spook them. At any rate, he'd decided to make a strategic retreat, and had gathered up all the interesting chemicals and equipment he could reach and retreated behind a new barricated between two work stations. He had work to do. Or fun. Definitely he was doing one or the other.

"Knock knock," a voice said from just outside his new den.

"Napoleon!" The smile spread across his face and hastily he pulled a piece of the barricade aside and dragged his friend inside, his arms wrapped warmly around Napoleon's neck "ты мой лучший друг"

"Right." Napoleon gazed at him, and his mouth was smiling but his eyes weren't. Gently, he removed Illya's arms. "Can we try English?"

"But English has all the wrong letters," he pouted.

"Still," Napoleon said firmly. "I'd prefer it."

"Very well." He sighed, put upon. "I just said you were my favouritest person." He frowned, that didn't sound quite right? "My most favourite?" he wondered. No. "My most favouritest," he decided at last. "You see? English is wrong." He wrapped his arms back around Napoleon firmly. Hopefully that would get his point across.

To his delight, this time Napoleon decided to return the hug. "Do you remember what happened to turn you into such a cheap date?" he asked.

"Not date," he protested with a roll of his eyes. "I am just so happy to see you. And yes - Baitman forgot to dilute his compound because he is an ass. So I shot him. In the ass." He giggled.

"I saw that," Napoleon told him with an audible grin. "He's going to be very angry with you when he wakes up, tovarisch. On the other hand, you're going to be very angry with him when you sober up, so I suppose that works out. Listen, Illya, we need to go to medical right now. They're analysed the contaminant from everyone's bloodstreams - "

" - I already did that," Illya said, pointing vaguely towards his notes. "I put a sample in the chemical analyser. It is not going to be a permanent effect - it is a change to brain chemistry that triggers a feeling of intense euphoria that will last some hours and then, likely be followed by a 'crash' of equally intense melancholy." He gazed at Napoleon earnestly. "I am not looking forward to that part."

"No," Napoleon agreed with a grimace. "Me neither." He picked up the notes and inspected them for a second then sighed. "Take these round to the Slavic languages translation department," he said resignedly to someone just outside the barricade. Illya pouted again - he hadn't realised anyone else was around. "Tell them to just...ignore the cartoons."

A thought suddenly occurred. "Why are you here?" he asked. "You left hours ago to have fun while I worked, so why are you working while I am having fun?"

"I was having fun, when I got a call saying you were armed, crazy and a danger to yourself and others," Napoleon told him. "I tried to say there was nothing new there, but they still sent me in to talk you down. Apparently they were worried that you had explosives."

"Nyet." He shook his head. "No explosives. Just things that explode."

"A fine distinction there, partner mine." Still with his arm around Illya's shoulders, Napoleon tried to guide him towards the exit. Which was unacceptably sneaky.

"Nyet," he said again. "I am fine here."

"No, we're going to medical," Napoleon said firmly.

He shook his head. "I do not want to go to medical, I want to go to commissary." Food sounded good right about now.

Napoleon studied him for a second. "Alright," he said at last. "Let's try some negotiation. You give me your gun, we leave the things that explode here, and we go to medical, _but_ I get someone to go and get you whatever you want from the commissary. What do you want anyway?"

He thought for a second. "Cake," he said at last. "All the cake."

"All the cake," Napoleon repeated carefully. "Alright. Do we have a deal?"

There was something in his partner's voice that even through his current haze of happiness warned him that Napoleon's attempt at humouring him might just be coming to an end. Realistically, he supposed they couldn't just leave him this corner of the building forever...and the fact that he was capable of thinking that, suggested that the euphoria might be starting to wear off.  
He nodded, handing over his gun. "All the cake," he emphasised.

"Of course," Napoleon agreed. "Just like I said."

He reached out and grabbed Napoleon's wrist. "And don't leave." He really wasn't looking forward to what came next.

Napoleon smiled at him comfortingly. "Of course not. After all, you're my most favouritest person too."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, please review.**


	18. The End of the Innocence

**A/N: Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII - the prompt words were green and flutter**

* * *

Napoleon gazed at himself in the mirror slowly inspecting his uniform. Green might not be his colour, but today he looked more like a man than he ever had before. Besides, he very much doubted that the US Army was going to change their uniform choices based on his sartorial preferences. With a frown, he brushed a speck of dust off his lieutenant's bar. Better. He didn't want anything to get in the way of that shine.

He grinned; no doubt he could expect more good-natured ribbing about his pristine uniform. It wasn't his fault that he made everything look good. Right back from when he'd first shown up for ROTC training, hair neatly combed and smelling of expensive cologne, his fellows had been certain he wasn't taking it seriously. He'd proved them wrong, when he'd come top in every single challenge. This was the life he wanted, and he had plans to excel.

Still, the butterflies were beginning to flutter in his stomach. These were his very last moments off base before they shipped out overseas. Just think; in two days time he'd be in Seoul, and after that they'd be heading up towards the 38th parallel and the invading communists. Keeping the world safe from democracy, that was him.

It would have been nice if his grandparents had answered his last letter. He'd hoped that hearing he was bound for Korea would be enough to jolt Grandfather out of his anger. But after all he'd said when Napoleon signed the contract that he wanted nothing more to do with him. The old man had never backed down in his life, why was it surprising that should be the case this time as well? He wanted Napoleon to follow him into the diplomatic service, as though that could somehow wipe away the shame that Father had brought on them, but Napoleon wanted to be his own man, not just do what the family expected. Besides, he knew himself well enough to admit he wasn't suited for the diplomatic service. Oh, he had the charm and he had the wits, just like Grandfather said, but he was a man of action, not just words. He was going to make his life count.

At least he wasn't short of people wishing him well. Aunt Amy had turned up yesterday, full of goodbyes and good wishes, and she'd given him a care package and a St Michael medal to keep him safe and turned away so he wouldn't see her crying. And before that he'd had dates with Cindy, Louisa, Mary-Jane and Abigail, all eager to make sure that his last days stateside were something special. He'd promised he'd write to them all. Frankie joked that he wasn't going to have time to do any soldiering.

A horn blared outside - the cab, here to take him to his new life. He took one last look at the mirror and gave a bright smile to the man looking back at him.

* * *

Four days in Korea, and his uniform was covered in so much dust that the green hardly showed at all now. He was tired and filthy, and the fear was a constant friend now, keeping him sharp, but he felt more alive here and now than he ever had in his life.

He took point scouting along a dirt road, walking the opposite direction to a long, winding column of weary refugees, their faces showing numb stoicism. The children were the worst, their eyes large with bewilderment. He wished he had more candy to offer them, but he'd already given away what he'd got from Aunt Amy.

In reality it all happened in a matter of seconds, but every time he remembered, he saw it in slow motion. The North Korean soldier stumbling out of the ditch, shouting out in alarm and raising his rifle...only Napoleon was quicker. He'd shot a three round burst before the Korean had even managed to aim. For a moment the soldier just stood there while the red blood blossomed across his chest. He was mere feet away, and Napoleon could see that he was even younger than _he_ was...just a kid, really. His eyes showed the same bewilderment as the children from the road. It was an age before he fell.

He approached the body cautiously. The kid was lying on his back, staring up with dead eyes towards the sun. There was blood bubbled around his mouth, and his skin had already lost the colour - shine - of life. He was dead. A moment ago he'd been alive, and now he was dead.

Without warning Napoleon's stomach lurched, and he found himself on his hands and knees beside the kid, spewing up his guts. Shakily he sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, conscious of footsteps approaching behind him.

"On your feet, lieutenant," Major Morgan said gruffly, holding a hand out to help him up. "You're alright. First time killing a man?"

He nodded shakily. "Yes, Major."

Morgan nodded at him, not unkindly. "Don't worry. It hits most of us like that the first time. I'd tell you it gets easier, but the truth is, the moment you realise how easy it is, you'll probably lose your lunch all over again. Try not to think about it. Try not to humanise them. And don't try and keep count."

Eventually, he was going to kill so many people that he wouldn't be able to keep count. The thought was huge and somehow terrifying. "Yes, Major," he said .

"That was some quick reactions there though," Morgan went on, clapping him on the shoulder. "You did good, son. Now, come on. Move out."

He fell back into position, Frankie moving forwards to take point this time. As they marched on, he couldn't help looking back at the kid, still lying by the side of the road.

He wondered what _he'd_ thought he was saving the world for?


	19. Remedial

**A/N: For the short affair challenge on Section VII. The prompt words were gold and alley. Also for the Back to School challenge. I'm multitasking**

 **And I now have over 50 reviews for this story! Thank you all so much for that.**

* * *

"Sometimes I suspect that Mr Waverly secretly despises me," Illya announced loudly as he stepped into the van from the alley.

Napoleon winced and covered his communicator a little too late.

"What was that?" Mr Waverly asked sharply.

"Ah, nothing sir, must have been a crossed line," Napoleon said. "As I was saying Mr Kuryakin had eyes on the girl throughout class, and Miss Dancer now has her in the dorm."

"Good," Mr Waverly said. "Keep me apprised of any new developments. And please tell Mr Kuryakin that if he is unhappy in his current assignment, there is a new scientific station in the Kalahari desert that would be very pleased to have his expertise for a few weeks...or longer."

Illya groaned and dropped his head into his hands with a few choice words.

"Uh uh," Napoleon said cheerfully. "Advanced English lessons, remember? You should be learning to swear in English by now."

"But then I would surely offend your delicate sensibilities," Illya returned sharply.

He grinned. "That was really your own fault, you know. What sort of spy doesn't check whether he's walking in on a conversation before making disparaging remarks about the boss?"

Illya looked at him with a complete lack of amusement. "The kind of spy who has spent the day listing all the irregular verbs in English and has come to the conclusion that your language has no logic."

"You must have noticed that when you were learning it the first time around," Napoleon pointed out.

"The first time around, KGB was teaching me," Illya said.

" _The_ KGB," Napoleon corrected, unwisely.

Illya glared. "Why? We do not refer to UNCLE as _the_ UNCLE and that too is an acronym representing an organisation. Why should one demand the definite article and the other not?"

"Convention," Napoleon answered immediately, before he had to get caught up in the argument.

"A ridiculous reason for anything," Illya remarked. "Very well. The first time around, _the_ KGB was teaching me. They had very little interest in the philosophy of language, and they did not rap knuckles for mistakes. I do not need advanced English lessons."

"Of course not," Napoleon soothed. "Your English is excellent, you speak it almost like a native. This is just for an assignment, remember? So you have to take a class that's beneath you. Just keep smiling, or whatever your equivalent is, and collect the gold stars."

There was a long pause. Illya put on his glasses and concentrated on the transcript from this morning's session. Which might have been convincing, if Napoleon didn't happen to know he'd already read it.

"Alright, what is it?" he asked.

Illya sighed deeply. "There was an impromptu test today. I failed."

For a longest time he just stared. "You...failed?" he repeated incredulously.

His surprise just made Illya look more gloomy. "I am not used to failing tests."

Napoleon imagined not. His smile dawned slowly. "So, this course is aimed at incoming foreign students who maybe haven't had a chance to practice their English lately," he said with barely concealed glee. "And you, who have been speaking English more or less every day for the last, what, six years? You _failed_ the test."

"Yes," Illya said, through clenched teeth.

"Well, isn't that interesting?" He shook his head with mock sadness. "I had no idea you had been faking it all these years."

"Faking it?" Illya repeated dangerously. "Napoleon, I speak a dozen more languages than that poor excuse for a teacher. I would be qualified to teach that class myself and do a far better job. This test was simply ridiculous. It was on collective nouns, a more pointless exercise I have seldom encountered."

Napoleon had to admit, he couldn't immediately see the point himself. "I wonder what the collective noun for THRUSH is?" he asked, briefly diverted.

Illlya looked at him like he was crazy. "A satrap."

"That only applies if they're all _in_ a satrap," he pointed out. "Suppose they're just hanging out in a bar or something."

"Oh. Then I suppose a group? A flock? My point is, it does not matter and I do not care." He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and thrust it towards Napoleon. "I defy you to tell me that you would have managed any better with this."

"I'm a native speaker," he reminded Illya as he looked down at the test, noting with amusement the red penned corrections, and the 4/20 at the top with an unhappy face scribbled next to it. This might yet turn out to be a THRUSH plot to drive his studious partner _completely_ out of his mind.

Reading over the questions, he very quickly realised he really wouldn't have done much better. Who could possibly need to know that a kangaroos came in mobs, or that candidates came in slates? But he kept his expression mildly curious, and when he looked back up at Illya he offered a bright and patronising smile. "Oh, we learn all that stuff in elementary school," he claimed airily. "Don't worry. Most people are prepared to make allowances."

"I do not need allowances, Napoleon!" Illya insisted.

He grinned, folding up the test and putting it in his pocket. "I'll just hold onto this so I can show Mr Waverly. Who knows? Maybe he'll be able to organise some remedial language lessons for you while you're in the Kalahari."

This time, Illya managed to swear at him in English.


	20. Bored Games

**A/N: Written for the Short Affair challenge on Section VII. Prompt words were sky blue and inhale. And thanks to InSilva for the line about "The British way and the wrong way."**

* * *

Napoleon gazed down at the mishmash of letters, trying to find any sense in it. Ah. "I - S - T on capital," he announced cheerfully placing the tiles down. "Capitalist. And that's a double word score on the T, so - "

" Twenty eight points," Illya told him.

He looked at him. "I know," he said levelly. The four of them had been stuck in this safe house for two days now, waiting for contact. None of them were built for boredom. There was no radio, no TV and no books - just a dusty pile of boardgames.

"Capitalist?" April smiled. "Was that a hint that you wanted to play Monopoly instead?"

"Definitely not," he said. "I can just about deal with losing at Scrabble to someone who speaks it as, what, a fifth language?"

"Fourth," Illya corrected. "And that's only if we are counting chronologically."

He nodded. "I'm not losing at Monopoly to the sneaky Communist. Again."

"The game does provide an excellent study as to to the inevitable downfall of a capitalist society," Illya said seriously.

"Right," Mark agreed. "Everyone always wants to be the car."

"Exactly," Illya nodded

"I always take the top hat," Napoleon said.

Illya snorted. "Why am I not surprised? And Q-U -A - R - O -L. Quarol."

They all looked at him. "No Russian," Napoleon reminded him. "Only English words allowed, remember?"

Illya gave a contemptuous little huff. "The Cyrillic alphabet has no letter Q. How could that be Russian? It is an English word."

Uh huh. Napoleon smiled widely. "And just what is a Quarol, partner mine?" he asked interestedly.

"A physics term," Illya declared. "It is a piece of apparatus one uses to more accurately measure the rate of particle decay among hadrons."

"Anyone?" Mark asked with a laugh.

April shook her head. "I studied psychology, darling.. The best I can do is tell you that a man who would lie to his friends' faces just to win at a children's game clearly has _serious_ issues."

Illya didn't even blink. "The Q is on the triple letter. So that is 70 points for me, if you please, Mark."

"This game should come with a dictionary as standard," Mark complained, scribbling the score down regardless. "And it's my turn...huh. I seem to only have six letters here. I must have forgotten to pick one up last time."

"Of course you did," April said with a mocking smile, and Napoleon surreptitiously looked under the table for the missing letter while Mark felt around the bag for a replacement.

"Ah," he said at last happily. "Just what I was looking for."

"It took you long enough to find it," April commented innocently. "Your finger-reading skills not up to it?"

Napoleon looked back at his letters with a frown. Wait..."These aren't the letters I had before," he said. He'd definitely had an 'H' and an 'I', rather than a 'R' and a 'U'. "April?"

She batted her eyelashes at him. "Yes, darling?"

"You should know better than to look away, Napoleon," Illya told him. "Things have a way of going missing."

"So I see," he said, with a glare at both of them. Oh. Wait. "Actually, I was wrong," he said cheerfully. "These are my letters after all."

"Anyway," Mark said loudly. "A-P-O-L-O-G and E on 'IS'. Apologise, and I used all seven letters so that's 78 points for me, which puts me ahead of you Napoleon."

"That's not how you spell 'apologize'," he objected

"It is exactly how he spells 'apologise'," Illya said. "I've read his reports."

Napoleon blinked. "What are you apologizing for in your reports?" he asked, briefly diverted.

"Look, mate," Mark said. "There's two ways of spelling it. The British way, and the wrong way. So you're just going to have to put up with it."

"I agree with him," Illya said.

"You spelled 'sceptical' with a 'k' two rounds ago, don't even talk to me," Mark said dismissively. "You're betraying the country that provided your education."

"I-N-H-A-L-E," April announced. "With the 'h' on the triple letter, that's 34 for me, I think."

"Thirteen of those points should be mine," Napoleon complained. "Okay, C-E-R-U-E-A on the 'N'. Cerulean, and that blank is an 'L'."

"What's that?" Illya asked.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "It's a colour. Like sky blue."

"No," Illya said patiently. "That." He pointed.

Ah. He had missed the fact that his word adjoined another.

"Agar with two 'r's," Mark said. "I've never seen that before."

He looked up into Illya's damned smile and decided to take a leaf out of his book. "It's an agricultural term," he lied. "To do with crop rotation."

Illya's expression didn't change. "Really."

"You know as much about agriculture as I know about physics, pal," he pointed out.

"Yes, but my point is _you_ know as much about agriculture as you know about physics," Illya said.

"And aren't there only meant to be two blanks in the set?" April asked with a frown.

He subtly rubbed his fingernails on his jacket sleeve to get rid of the little traces of paint he'd scratched off the tile.

April sighed. "Maybe we should try a different game."

"Risk?" Mark suggested.

"No!" he and Illya said simultaneously.

"There was an...incident," Illya explained carefully.

"An incident?" April repeated, a tiny smile hovering around her lips.

"An incident," Napoleon agreed, thankful for the euphemism. "And that's all we're going to tell you." There had almost been a fist fight, and even, almost, an order handed down from Mr Waverly banning the game for all UNCLE personnel.

"Alright, alright," Mark said shaking his head. "Snakes and Ladders? Surely no one can find a way to cheat at that."

He and Illya exchanged a quick glance. Ah. A _challenge._


	21. The UnInnocent

**A/N: Written for the Short Affair challenge on Section VII on Livejournal**

* * *

So far the only saving grace of this assignment was that the food was nice. And even that was less about him thinking of his stomach, and more of the certain petty delight he could take in watching the careful non-expression on Illya's face every time he was forced to serve Napoleon whatever new delicacy Sebastian Charleston had laid on. They all had to work according to their own talents, and Napoleon most definitely made a better party guest than a waiter.

Though that did force him to endure Charleston's company in closer range than he would like. He was trying hard to find any redeeming qualities that the man might possess - other than refusing to work with THRUSH - and it was an uphill struggle. Drinks before dinner had been accompanied by a round of racist jokes that he'd been obliged to laugh sycophantically at in order to keep his cover, and dinner itself had included an unpleasantly vivid anecdote about a sexual encounter with a young woman who was sitting barely three places away. He was far from being a prude, but some things were just unnecessary.

It didn't help that the wine was kept topped up all through the meal. Charleston's face was becoming progressively redder, and when he called for more drink his staff scurried to obey. "What's this?" he demanded belligerently, holding up a champagne flute filled with red wine. "Who poured this?"

"I did, sir," Illya murmured, stepping forwards at once. "An accident, I'm sorry."

Napoleon blinked, because drawing attention to themselves wasn't part of the plan, and it most definitely hadn't been Illya who had poured the wine. It had been the youngest waitress...who was currently standing in the background looking terrified and relieved. Ah.

"You're sorry," Charleston snorted. "Oh, that's alright then. You're _sorry_." Without warning he lunged to his feet and slapped Illya hard across the face. "That's what I think of your apologies."

Napoleon tensed, but as the other guests around the table tittered disinterestedly, he forced himself to give a vacuous smile.

Illya didn't react beyond keeping his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. Only Napoleon would know just how lucky Charleston was.

Of course, the lack of reaction just seemed to spur him on. "Look at him, standing there dumbly. Do you even know what you've done wrong, boy?" He snatched the glass from the table and threw it at Illya's feet. The flinch was a little overdone to Napoleon's critical eye, but it was better than a punch. "It's like talking to a statue. Clean that up."

"Certainly, sir," Illya said. "I will go fetch a broom."

"No," Charleston disagreed. "Use your hands." There was a certain eager cruelty in his voice that Napoleon despised.

There was a fraction of a second's hesitation before Illya knelt down and started to do exactly that. And though Charleston was watching hopefully, a man who regularly played around with explosives was certainly capable of picking up a broken wine glass without cutting himself.

"You're not American," Charleston said, staring down. "Where are you from?"

"Lithuania," Illya answered.

"Eastern Europe," Charleston said dismissively. "I thought so, from the cowering." He stepped forwards and stamped on Illya's hand, pressing it down into the broken glass until the red spread out. "You're yellow, aren't you boy? And if it wasn't for us generously letting you into our country, you'd be speaking Russian right now."

Probably. Or at least swearing bitterly in it. There was a swell of patriotic muttering around him, and he raised a glass and loudly proclaimed "God Bless America," which at least managed to pull Charleston's attention back to the joys of the table and drinking.

* * *

"You alright?" he asked in an undertone, leaning against a wall and watching as Charleston dragged two more girls up to dance on the table with him - or rather, watching for who _else_ was watching.

"Yes," Illya said, carrying around a tray of champagne glasses in his left hand, his right hidden away inside his jacket, although Napoleon had caught sight of blood and hastily wrapped bandages. "But I would be grateful if you could remind me that we are sworn to defend _all_ life from THRUSH. Somehow, I find myself forgetting this evening."

Napoleon kept his eyes on Charleston. "I'm working on that one myself," he admitted. "Just remember; better him being in charge of Lasenby Shipping than some THRUSH puppet."

They paused as Charleston ripped open the bodice of one of his guest's dresses, leaving her squealing and grabbing a tablecloth to cover up.

"Upstanding pillar of the community that he is," Napoleon added with a sigh. "Any sign of our assassin?"

"So far I believe every single member of the staff wishes him dead," Illya said. "However, I suspect that's just good taste."

Yes. He wondered if Mr Waverly would accept 'We really didn't want to' as a good excuse for not foiling an assassination?

* * *

Illya's takedown of the last assassin was swift, brutal, and _coincidentally_ directly in front of Sebastian Charleston. Napoleon was almost certain that he managed to do it while maintaining eye contact with the man.

"Wh...what?" Charleston stuttered, his face sheet white.

"We had orders to make sure you stay alive," Napoleon smiled pleasantly, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder as he walked around behind him, still holding his gun in his other hand. "But that's not always going to be the case. And we don't particularly care for your personal habits, or the way you treat your employees. We're going to be watching you from now on."

"It's possible we will come back," Illya added seriously. "You will never know."

It was possible that they would, but more than likely that would be if THRUSH went after Charleston again. They didn't need to share that though.

He smiled at Illya. "Dinner?"


	22. Dogs Filled With Clockwork

**A/N: Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII - prompts were orange and groggy**

* * *

"I will never understand," Napoleon announced exasperatedly. "How you can just shrug off a bullet wound, but get every last cold or flu bug that's going around."

Illya opened one eye to squint at him from his position curled up under a mound of blankets. "It is because I was created to suffer," he said, half seriously, his voice choked and stuffy. His head was killing him and his throat and nose felt unpleasantly scratchy.

"I'm inclined to believe you." He closed his eyes again, listening to the footsteps crossing the floor, and something being laid down on the night stand beside the alarm-clock. "Here. Orange juice and aspirin. You sure you don't want some soup as well?"

"You do not need to fuss," he said, burrowing his face deeper in the pillow with a grimace. The hotel linens smelled strongly of lavender, which was doing little for his headache. Perhaps if he stopped breathing altogether... "Go. Enjoy your date with..." He drew a blank on the name. "Your ladyfriend," he finished quickly, hoping Napoleon didn't notice.

He could _feel_ the look Napoleon was giving him. "Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

Fumbling, he grabbed the pillow next to him and threw it in the general direction of his partner's voice. "I'll be fine. Get out of here and let me sleep!"

"Okay, okay. I'm just going to be in the restaurant down the street. Call me if you need anything."

"Da," he mumbled foggily, and he was already asleep before he heard the door close.

* * *

It was dark when he woke and he couldn't breathe. He struggled to think through the panic - there was a massive dog lying on his chest – he could feel the pressure on his lungs as it pushed down on his ribcage, and he could hear it breathing, rough and wheezing. There was sharp agony in a line across his throat where the dog's sharp teeth were digging in, and it must be about to tear his throat out, any second now. He swung his hand wildly, trying to protect himself and there was an odd sounding crash, and flash of pain across his hand, and the dog wasn't a real animal, it wasn't right, its insides were filled with clockwork.

Horrified, frantic, he kicked and pushed, trying to throw the monstrous thing off him, and it was massive, heavy, everywhere, tangled around his limbs, and it was all he could do to roll off the bed with it, crashing to the ground and even though he tried desperately to kill it, somehow it vanished beneath his hands.

Not good. He shivered. It was too hot and there wasn't enough air in the room, and they were under attack from dogs filled with clockwork. He felt around vaguely, looking for his gun, but there was no sign of it. He caught sight of something metallic ahead of him and he grabbed the lamp from the nightstand and flung it as hard as he could, throwing himself after it, kicking and punching, trying his best to kill the dog before it could escape and hurt anyone else, but it growled and fought and bit and turned to glass beneath his attack, and that was _cheating._

What was this thing THRUSH had created? How could they stop it? He needed to find Napoleon. Needed to warn him, because if this thing had been sent after him, they would be coming for his partner too.

He fought his way through the hotel room, trying to find the door, but the clockwork dog had changed the room around while he had been sleeping – if it was even the same room. He couldn't be certain. His head was clouded and it was so hard to _think..._ he needed to find Napoleon.

Eventually he managed to reach the door, but he had to break it down in order to make his escape, and the dog was waiting for him just outside, still all sharp metal gears and slobbering teeth beneath cotton-soft fur. This was so much worse than the usual THRUSH plots. This was like something out of a nightmare.

There were people shouting at him but their voices were too loud – too painful – and he couldn't understand what they were saying. Hands grabbed out at him and he pushed them away. He didn't want to hurt them, but they didn't understand. He had to protect them. He had to find Napoleon.

Somehow, he found the stairs and staggered down them, but they'd been trapped somehow, mined, maybe, and he was falling or else the steps were rising, coming up to hit him and he gasped at the pain, still struggling for breath around the ribs the dog had broken. Eventually he managed to limp or crawl down into the lobby, and he fell out into a sea of too-bright-lights and too-loud-voices, and there were things attacking him and he couldn't tell if it was the dog, but he fought back anyway.

"Illya!"

He heard Napoleon's voice before he saw him, and then Napoleon's hands were on his arms, drawing him up. "We have to get out of here," he explained quickly. "THRUSH have sent a new weapon against us. Monsters. Dogs, hollowed out, their insides filled with clockwork."

Napoleon gazed at him uncomprehendingly, and Illya bared his teeth irritably. How difficult was this to understand? "Okay, let's try that again in English."

English? He had been speaking English...hadn't he? He frowned in concentration. "I am attack. Dogs full with clockwork."

"I...see," Napoleon said carefully. Time blurred, and he could feel Napoleon's hand against his forehead. "Damn, you're burning up. We need to get you to the hospital, tovarisch."

Someone was suddenly behind him, shouting angrily. He tried to turn – to fight – but Napoleon had a hold of him.

"Our organisation will be ecstatic to pay for any damages," Napoleon said tightly, over his head. "But right now I have to get my friend to the hospital. Believe me, you do not want to get in my way."

"Nyet." He shook his head frantically. "We need kill dogs. I did not see where went."

"Trust me?" Napoleon invited. "I'll take care of everything."

He hesitated. The world was confusing, spinning out of control, and his head was pounding. Napoleon was here, promising to take care of everything. What else could he ask for. "Da," he nodded vaguely, and he pitched forwards into the waiting darkness, only vaguely aware of Napoleon's arms catching him.

* * *

He woke up with an aching head and a dull pain in his chest and throat, but that wasn't what had him worried. He might be feeling groggy, but he still knew immediately that this wasn't where he'd fallen asleep. The hotel had smelled of lavender but here there was the overwhelming smell of antiseptic. He lay still and kept his breathing even, feigning sleep until he knew what was going on.

"Good morning!" Napoleon's voice was loud and bright.

He rolled over gingerly and looked at his partner. "I am in hospital?"

"Yep," Napoleon nodded. "After I left you, you decided to develop a fever of 105, start hallucinating clockwork dogs and go on a rampage. Out of interest, was that what you _meant_ by 'I'll be fine'?"

He remembered...vaguely. Teeth and gears and pain. "That was..." He struggled for a second and gave up. "Did I hurt anyone?"

"No," Napoleon smiled broadly. "Fortunately your ire seemed reserved for inanimate objects. Though the hotel room is going to need refurbished. The manager has sent Mr Waverly a bill for two thousand dollars."

That seemed ridiculously steep. "I suppose he is going to dock it from my wages," he said resignedly.

The smile vanished. "Ah. No. Apparently it's all my fault for leaving you alone. He says I get to explain it all and hand over the cash."

That was something at least. It was good that something was going right.

"Hey, don't get any idea, pals," Napoleon warned. "Just remember, that means Mr Waverly doesn't trust you left alone in a hotel room. And I think he has a point. Clockwork dogs? What goes on in your head?"

He shrugged. "I am not responsible for my hallucinations."

"No, seemingly _I_ am," Napoleon grumbled. "Since when am I my partner's keeper?"

"Goes both ways," he said, smiling effortfully as he felt his eyes closing.

"Go to sleep," Napoleon told him from somewhere far away.

He did.


	23. Friendly Cooperation

**A/N: Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII. Prompt words were silver and hunt**

* * *

"Perhaps Mr Waverly will be content with silver?" Illya suggested gloomily as the CIA team vanished beyond the tree line, captured flags in hand.

Napoleon sighed and lowered his gun. These paint guns were barely accurate over thirty feet. He'd missed two shots he _knew_ he would have made with his special and, as it was concealed in an ankle holster, it had been a real temptation. "I doubt it," he said in response. "I suspect his attitude is more 'Come home with gold or don't come home at all.'"

"Ah." Illya considered this for a moment. "That is the sort of attitude that encourages defection."

He grinned. "If you want to go try and join the FBI, be my guest," he invited. "But I'm not sure they'll have you." Certainly they'd been glaring suspiciously at him over breakfast, even going so far as to move to another table, although that could have been to keep their bacon hoard safe from the secret service. "Otherwise, let's go get the CIA."

"All in the spirit of inter-agency cooperation of course," Illya said, straight-faced.

That was what this was supposed to be about. Their official orders were to observe, learn and make positive contacts among their contemporaries. Unofficially... "This is the sort of cooperation that involves showing who's best."

Illya smiled briefly. "How familiar."

Napoleon ignored him. Friendly competition was perfectly natural. "Alright. They're heading east and their base is, what?"

"Four miles north," Illya told him. "But they'll be heading for the ridge in order to avoid..." He stopped and fixed Napoleon with a sharp look.

"The cliffs," Napoleon agreed brightly.

"The fifty foot high near-vertical cliffs, you mean?"

"Those are the ones." He smiled. "Did you have something better to do? If we get to their base first we can ambush them."

"We can do better than that," Illya said. "Have you noticed these guns come apart?"

He recognised the gleam in his partner's eyes and he wasn't certain they were sticking to the rules anymore, but no matter. The CIA wouldn't know what hit them. All in the spirit of cooperation, naturally.

* * *

Fortunately he had a length of micro-rope concealed in his belt and Illya had a couple of pitons in his shoes so the climb wasn't as bad as it might have been. He wondered whether they were the only ones who had packed for the conference like they were going on a mission. Probably not.

"That should put us at least half an hour ahead of the CIA," Illya told him.

He nodded. That sounded about right. And the secret service, FBI and NSA were already out of the game. "They'll have guards," he commented.

"And probably traps," Illya agreed. Certainly _they'd_ left Corwin and Lewis to defend their base and flag while he and Illya went on the hunt. They had the FBI flag while the CIA had the NSA and the secret service. But that was going to change.

"You're going to need to lure them out here," Illya said. "And I need your gun."

"You never want to make it easy for me, do you?" he said, giving up his paintgun with a sigh.

"Easy bores you," Illya told him accurately. "Try not to get shot. We will lose bonus points."

"You're all heart," Napoleon called after him as he disappeared into the trees.

He found a whole row of traps along the perimeter. Fairly sophisticated, considering the time constraints. Taking careful note of the positions, he quickly gathered a bunch of large rocks and took refuge in a tree, throwing the rocks to set off the traps in quick succession to create the impression of someone – or something – rapidly moving through the trees and at the end he gave a loud, bloodcurdling scream. "Oh, God, it's a bear! Help! Help me!" He threw a few more rocks to make the bushes rustle and smiled as he spotted the movement in the trees as the CIA came to check it out. That should give Illya enough time and he quickly moved through the treetops towards the CIA base.

He found Illya stretched out on a branch just overlooking it, eyes closed and arms folded, and took a seat beside him. "Thanks for helping with the bear, by the way," he whispered.

Illya didn't open his eyes. "I knew it was not real. I could hear the fear in your voice. We have encountered bears before, remember? You reacted with irony, not fear."

He raised an eyebrow. "So if you'd heard irony...?"

"I'd have come running," Illya assured him.

"Good to know." He leaned forwards. "Wait."

The guards had apparently met up with the hunters and the four CIA agents were walking back to their base, guns drawn and looking around themselves cautiously. Too bad they were looking for the wrong danger.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Illya produced a radio detonator that definitely hadn't been on the equipment list for the weekend, and triggered it with an unholy smile.

There was a soft _whumph_ and a second later the CIA base was completely covered in paint, and the four agents were standing there, coated from head to toe, and seemingly in a state of shock.

With a smile, Napoleon dropped down from the tree and sauntered up to them, Illya a step behind. He collected the three flags easily. "Better luck next year, fellas," he said cheerfully.


	24. Not Quite According To Plan

**A/N: Not one of my better efforts, but thought I'd post it anyway.**

* * *

There were some moments that as soon as they happened told you that you had just ruined your life, if not forever then at least for the foreseeable future. As far as Napoleon was concerned, gesturing grandly during a frank and spirited discussion about who was the better actor and accidentally letting slip the gold-leaf covered lead brick you'd been holding so it fell solidly onto your ridiculously-vindictive partner's foot _certainly_ qualified.

He watched guiltily as the colour drained from Illya's face. "Ow," he said woodenly after a second went by.

"Sorry," Napoleon said as Illya stooped to pick up the brick. "Is it broken?"

Illya shot him a dark look. "The brick? Or my foot?"

"Unless your shoes are made of diamond," he began patiently, but Illya rolled his eyes at him and dropped the brick back into the chest before hopping over to the sofa.

"Really, Napoleon, your clumsiness knows no bounds."

In the circumstances he decided to ignore the unfairness of _that._ Starting another argument right now didn't seem helpful. Apart from anything else, technically speaking they hadn't finished with the first one. "Alright," he said, crouching down and starting to ease off Illya's shoe and sock. "Let's take a look."

He barely caught a glimpse of the rapidly-spreading purple, before Illya pushed him away. "No time. Baxter will be here any moment and he is unlikely to react well to anything out of the ordinary." He pursed his lips irritably. "And as far as he is aware, your incompetence _is_ out of the ordinary."

"You're the one who put your foot there," he said, hoping to distract Illya enough that he could at least sneak a judgement as to whether or not it was broken.

Illya eyed him sceptically. "On the floor?"

"Yes," he declared, and he was thwarted as Illya shoved his foot back into his shoe and stood up.

Unfortunately Illya was right about Baxter at least. The man was rightfully paranoid about the Central Committee discovering his little embezzlement racket. And when he tried to repay the money with fake gold bars, well, that should shut operations in this part of the world down for a while.

That had been the plan anyway. But when the coded knock came a moment later, it was followed almost immediately by a smoke grenade and _that_ was followed almost immediately by a series of armed THRUSH guards. Ah. Evidently Baxter's scheme had already come unstuck.

He grabbed Illya's arm and pulled him back towards the meagre cover of the table. "Well," he said. "I guess this whole affair turned out to be a waste of time anyway." There wasn't much point, after all, in deposing someone who'd apparently managed to topple himself. And it had been such a clever scheme too... "There's a trellis beneath the window. Feel up to some climbing?"

Illya nodded, firing carefully into the smoke. "You go first. I will cover you and follow."

He was almost on his feet before he registered the lie. "Oh no you don't. Why don't you go first?"

There was a beat and Illya smiled humourlessly. "It _is_ broken," he admitted. "I will not be be able to climb."

Ah. He fired a quick burst at the shadowy figures he could see, smiling with satisfaction when one fell, and took advantage of them momentarily falling back to pull Illya towards the window. They were on the second floor, but just as he remembered, the wooden trellis reached all the way down to the ground.

"I can barely put any weight on it," Illya said through gritted teeth. "I can't climb and there is no time for you to help me."

He glanced back into the room and the window was round the corner so they still had a bit of time, a bit of cover. Nowhere near enough though. "I know," he agreed, sliding the window open.

"So you see?" Illya regarded him earnestly. "You must go. I will hold them off as long as I can. There is no sense in both of us being captured."

"No," he agreed truthfully. "I'm sorry, Illya."

Something in Illya's face tightened and he opened his mouth, no doubt ready to say something else ridiculous and Napoleon was beginning to think he kept his _brain_ in his foot. But in the end he didn't say anything at all, because that was the moment Napoleon shoved him out the window.

He followed a second later, scrambling down the trellis in what, he admitted, was now the slow way down, and hurried over to where his partner was huddled in a heap, dazed and muttering in bitter Russian, his arm now lying at an unnatural angle.

"Well," Napoleon said practically, in response to the baleful look. "You're alive, aren't you?"

"Yes." Illya gazed fixedly up at him. "Remind me to... _thank_ you for that later."

Mmm. He shivered. As the bullets started hitting the ground, he hauled Illya off the ground and started to run, but still he couldn't help but think he might just be safer staying here and taking his chances with THRUSH.


	25. A Long Night

**A/N: Written for the picfic challenge on Section VII**

* * *

Even from across the room Napoleon could tell from the expression on Dr Hayden's face that the news wasn't good. His heart sank; he'd been told that the antibiotics should be working by now, if they were going to work at all. He started to walk across the room, ready to ask what the next step was - to demand that they invent some new treatment if necessary – but Sheila, one of the nurses, stepped in front of him. "Really, Mr Solo, I thought we agreed you were going to take a break?"

He spared her a charming smile. "I did. I grabbed a shower and some coffee and changed my shirt."

"You need sleep," she scolded fondly. "Your cousin isn't going to get better from you running yourself into the ground."

"No, but he's not going to get worse either," he returned. "Excuse me."

It was such a stupid thing. No great THRUSH plot, no new drug or doomsday device. Their last assignment-but-one, Illya had been kidnapped by an old, paranoid recluse who was convinced Soviet spies were stealing his mail. Napoleon had taken care of the THRUSH satrap before going to rescue his very cross partner from the cellar he'd been tied up in. He'd had a couple of rat bites, but it had seemed like nothing – he'd been more concerned about the meals he'd missed, and Napoleon had made some bad joke about him _being_ dinner. And then they'd been sent straight out to Cleveland, and the whole thing had been more or less forgotten.

Only it turned out rats were dangerous. They carried diseases, and that was something that he knew perfectly well and yet had somehow never stopped to consider. It was ridiculous, after all, to think that a rodent might succeed where THRUSH had so often failed.

Illya had got sick fast. One day he'd been complaining about a headache and some muscle pain, and the next he'd been admitted to medical with a dangerously high fever, jaundice and rapidly-failing kidneys, and they'd spent far too long looking for nefarious causes rather than mundane ones. Napoleon had wasted precious time, looking for ways a non-existent poison could have been administered. When they'd figured it out, Illya had been transferred to the hospital, and at least he was in the right place now, getting what was supposed to be the right treatment, but still he wondered if the delay might have cost them dearly.

He reached the doctor. "Is there any change?" he asked, with what he already knew was wasted hope.

Hayden shook his head grimly. "I'm afraid not, Mr Solo. The fever hasn't broken, and he isn't responding to antibiotics yet."

"I thought you said they should be working by now," he said. "If they're not going to work - "

" - they might still take a little longer," Hayden said, patting his arm comfortingly. "We need to give them a little more time. Some people respond differently, especially if they..." He hesitated.

"What?" he asked sharply.

"We don't have a complete medical history for Mr Kuryakin," Hayden said delicately. "But am I right in thinking he wasn't born in this country?"

Napoleon would have thought that was obvious from the fact that in all his delirious ramblings, Illya hadn't said a single word in English. Most of it was either Ukrainian or Russian, with the occasional German word thrown in. And not only did that mean that Napoleon couldn't understand most of what he was saying, Illya didn't seem able to understand _him_ either. Oh, he reacted to Napoleon's voice, where he seemed to not even register others, but even when he was apparently conscious he just gazed blankly at Napoleon as though he were speaking a foreign language. Which, he supposed, he was.

"No, he wasn't," he said in answer to the doctor's question. "He's from the European branch of the family."

"Of course," Hayden nodded. "Hmmm. Well, malnutrition in early childhood can have a lasting effect on the body's ability to fight off diseases. I don't know if you know if - "

" - yes," he said, cutting off the question before it was ever formed. "Does it make a difference?" If so, then it should have been included in the fake medical file that UNCLE put together for

Hayden shifted uncomfortably. "Possibly," he said evasively. "As I said, it can leave a person weaker. Slower to recover." He hesitated again. "Mr Solo, I'm sorry to have to say this, but if there's any family left over in Europe who would want to see him, you should call them now. Just in case."

Just in case. He felt his blood turn to ice. "There's no one," he said. "It's just the two of us."

"I see." Hayden gazed at him sympathetically. "You should go and sit with him."

"Of course," he said, because he should and he wanted to. He turned back and looked at Hayden. "Illya is _not_ weak. He'll surprise you yet."

* * *

It was cold in the hospital room. Earlier, they'd tried to lower Illya's fever by putting him in an ice bath, which he'd seemed to interpret as some form of torture. He'd been pleading in frantic Ukrainian, and Napoleon hadn't understood much beyond 'no' and 'please', and when he'd tried to be reassuring, Illya had turned to look at him, but his eyes had been blank and uncomprehending.

He took a seat by the bedside. Illya was shivering slightly, his skin yellow and waxy. "You know that's not your colour," he said.

Illya barely twitched in acknowledgement, mumbling something incoherent, and Napoleon didn't need to understand the words to hear the fear and distress.

"I'm here," he said quietly, reaching out and touching Illya's hand gently.

No reaction. No understanding. It was frustrating, feeling as though Illya could hear him but couldn't understand. He couldn't help but think that if he could just reach him, if he could just get through, then everything would be better. With the languages Illya was using, he had been tempted to try talking to him in German, but he knew that if Illya had got lost in his head, back to a time in his life when those had been the only three languages he knew, then German would probably be a mistake

"This isn't the way things are going to end," he said fiercely. Not with Illya not understanding him. Not at all, if he could help it. If only there was something he could do.

He took out his communicator and called back to headquarters. "I need to talk to someone in Slavic translations," he said.

"Napoleon?" Linda sounded startled. "I thought...I didn't think you were on duty."

"I'm not," he said simply.

"Oh! Oh, of course," she said. "I think Olga Chelomey is on duty tonight. One moment, please."

He grimaced. It would be Olga. She didn't like him because she found him too frivolous, and she didn't like Illya because she had defected from the Soviet Union as a teenager and found the fact that Illya hadn't unconscionable. More than that, when Illya had first started working in New York she had been convinced that he was still KGB, apparently even suggesting that he might have been sent to kill her. It probably hadn't helped that Illya had pointed out that if the KGB _had_ sent him on an assassination mission, they'd probably have given him a more valuable target. From personal experience, Napoleon knew there was something a little insulting about being told you weren't important enough to kill.

He smiled at the memory. His partner's dark sense of humour was as amusing as it was exasperating, and somehow always seemed to emerge at the worst possible times.

"Mr Solo. What do you need?" Her tone was brusque but not as unwelcoming as usual. She must have heard that Illya was in the hospital.

"I need some phrases translated into Ukrainian," he said carefully. "Simple phrases, that I can learn and repeat."

"Is this official?" she asked.

"No," he admitted. "Call it a personal favour."

"I really don't have time for this," she said, clicking her tongue. "Some of us _are_ on duty, you know."

"I know," he said quietly. " _Please_."

"Okay," she said, with a put upon sigh. "What do you need translated?"

Quickly he listed a handful of sentences. Everything he wanted to say.

For a long moment she didn't say anything at all, and when she did her voice was noticeably softer. "Of course, Mr Solo. I'll tell you what to say and you just repeat after me. Okay?"

"I appreciate that," he said smoothly. "And I'd be grateful if we could keep this just between us. "

"Alright," she promised and she paused again. "I hope Mr Kuryakin gets better soon."

"Yes. Me too."

* * *

He sat by Illya's bed, his hand resting on his partner's, and carefully repeated the words that Olga had taught him.

"Ya tut." " _I'm here."_

"Vy v bezpetsi." _"You're safe."_

"Ty ne samotniy." _"You're not alone._ "

"Meni potribno schob zhhtyty." _"I need you to live._ "

He repeated them over and over, barely remembering what the words meant, their sense blending together into a desperate promise or plea, and Illya shifted restlessly, turning towards Napoleon and seeming to hang on every word, gradually seeming to relax, to trust in Napoleon, to believe that he was being taken care of.

And, slowly, miracle of miracles, the off-colour faded from Illya's face, and his breathing smoothed from the harsh, shallow gasps into something gentler, healthier.

Doctors and nurses bustled around him with renewed energy. His hope was their hope now, and Hayden indicated to him to carry on talking.

He did. All through the night, the same endless words, and it was a little after dawn that Illya turned his head to look at him.

"Your accent is appalling," Illya told him muzzily, eyes so much clearer than they had been in forever.

He smiled slightly. "Well, I'm sorry about that," he said obligingly. He doubted that Illya would remember this later. And if, by some chance, he did, they would never discuss it anyway.

They never needed to talk about what they did for each other.


	26. Drabbles

**A/N: 6 drabbles written for the Section VII drabble challenge**

* * *

 **1\. Hospital Visiting**

"We seem to be at an impasse," Angelique said to the Russian barring her way.

"Napoleon is going to be fine." His eyes were softer than usual.

She waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, really? I just happened to be passing the hospital. That's all."

He nodded. "I can't let you in to see him."

"I assume you're standing guard for more than me," she said, her mouth tight. "Take care of him then. If you must."

"I'll tell him you were looking for him," he called after her as she walked away.

She didn't look back.

* * *

 **2\. Accounting Problems**

"That can't be right, your expenses are higher than mine this month?"

"That's supposed to be confidential, Napoleon...give me that!"

"$480 dollars on vodka in a single night?! And accounting _approved_ it? Illya..."

"It was very good vodka."

"It would have to be."

"You will remember that Mr Waverly wished me to surreptitiously glean information from the crew of that Russian frigate a few weeks ago?"

"Yes...?"

"It was Great Socialist Revolution Day."

"Ah. You know, at least that explains this memo that's been circulated."

"Mmm?"

"Accounting would like to respectfully suggest that you leave your liver to medical science."

* * *

 **3\. Cultural Exchanges**

"Wait," Napoleon said as Mark raised his glass for the third time. "The third toast is for the fallen."

"What?"

"The third toast is always for the fallen," Napoleon repeated. "By Russian tradition. And the fourth is a wish that none of us might join them." He was smiling but his eyes were deadly serious.

Mark _could_ ask why an Englishman and an American drinking Italian wine in Honduras should follow Russian drinking traditions. But he wasn't going to.

"To the fallen, then. May they rest in peace."

Besides. It was a good tradition. He must remember to tell April.

* * *

 **4\. Dancing Discussions**

The woman he was dancing with was beguiling enough to turn a saint's head and Napoleon had no such natural resistance.

"You _do_ remember our mission?" his partner asked scathingly in his ear from across the room.

He smiled unconcernedly, spinning her around dizzyingly.

"And you _have_ noticed she is KGB?"

Of course. Really, Illya should know by now that he wasn't inclined to discriminate.

"Her name is Irina Petrovna Pichushkin. She and I were acquainted back home. Intimately acquainted. If that makes a difference to you."

Ah. Sadly it did. He brought the dance to an end with regret.

* * *

 **5\. Delicate Manoeuvres**

"Hrmph. Of course, this would all be easier if we could talk to Dr Gerasimov."

"Yes, sir."

"Unfortunately, he was killed while defecting from the Soviet Union."

"Sir."

"I have a report here which says that he and his entire family, including his three young children and his elderly mother attempted to escape through Romania but were tracked down by a KGB operative...named Illya Kuryakin."

"Yes, sir."

"Who, in a remarkably uncharacteristic move, chose to execute them all."

"Sir."

"Thereby going against not only his personal morality, but his superior's orders, risking both his career and indeed his life."

"Yes, sir."

"Odd that, wouldn't you say? Mr Kuryakin?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long would it take you to contact Dr Gerasimov?"

"Dr Gerasimov was killed while attempting to escape the Soviet Union. As you are aware, sir, anyone who helps a traitor escape is themselves committing an act of treachery which is punishable by death."

"Oh, quite, quite. I wonder though. Perhaps Dr Gerasimov might have, say, an identical twin brother who might be able to help us?"

"An identical...ah. Yes, sir. I believe he does. I shall bring him here within a few hours."

"Very good. Carry on, Mr Kuryakin."

* * *

 **6\. Last Meetings**

Napoleon could hardly hear the pilot's words over the radio. "I'm sorry Mr Solo. We're getting a lot of fire here. There's no way we're going to make it to both extractions."

Unforgivably safe back at headquarters, it was on the tip of his tongue to demand they try anyway. But they were operating in one of the places in the world where they were not supposed to be and he couldn't take that selfish chance.

Illya had more experience than Simons - he'd have a better chance of making his own escape. Wishful thinking. ( _He already knew Illya would never betray UNCLE under torture._ )

"Napoleon."

"Go to the river," he instructed the pilot. "Pick up Simons and get out."

If he saved Illya he would always know why.

"Thank you," Illya said. "I will destroy anything that can tie me to UNCLE so this will be my last communication." A pause. "I will see you when I get back to New York, my friend."

He closed his eyes at the uncharacteristic optimism. All to make him feel better. "You'd better," he said steadily. "It's your turn to buy dinner."

There was gunfire in the distance. The connection went dead.


	27. A Little Inaction

**A/N: Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII, words were degrade and red**

* * *

There were some advantages to sharing an office with Illya, Napoleon had found. Not least that when he was dealing with the unpleasant task of post-mission analysis, the sight of his partner sitting just to their right and fixing them with an unwavering stare had a way of encouraging junior agents to be more forthcoming, no matter _how_ badly they had messed up.

"So you broke into the facility according to plan and without being detected," he summarised.

"Yes, sir," Williams agreed, standing ramrod straight, his army background very much in evidence.

"And you are aware your orders were to plan explosives around the lab," he continued, turning to Leeson to make it clear that no one was getting out of this.

"Yes, sir," Leeson said.

"But instead, before you even reached the control room, you saw a big, red, shiny button with a sign above it saying 'Self Destruct' in flashing lights, and decided to press it. And at what point did you realise it was a rather obvious trap?"

They both shifted awkwardly. "There wasn't actually any flashing lights," Leeson dared to say.

"It was a metaphor," Illya spoke up coldly and Napoleon took note of the way the two jumped. He was sure they hadn't forgotten Illya was there. Possibly they just hadn't expected him to speak. Possibly they were just terrified of him. Napoleon was well aware that of the two of them _he_ was generally considered the nice one, while Illya was...not.

"Here's a tip for you," he advised pleasantly. "If something seems too easy, it probably is."

"We didn't know it was a trap," sir, Williams said defensively.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Well, I would certainly hope that if you'd known it was a trap, you wouldn't have set it off."

"St Louis," Illya murmured pointedly.

He shot his partner an exasperated look, reminding him whose side he was supposed to be on. Besides, St Louis had been almost two months ago. The world had moved on, or at least Napoleon had.

"It wouldn't be the first time THRUSH has had a self-destruct system in one of their bases," Williams pointed out. "It seemed like a perfect opportunity to use their paranoia against them."

"As nice as it would be, they generally have any self destruct mechanism in a more secure location, and not simply a shiny button that any passing UNCLE agent can press," Illya said dryly.

"It wasn't a case of you using their paranoia, so much as them using your gullibility," he added. According to their report, the moment Williams had pressed the button, the alarm system had been triggered, the base had absolutely failed to blow up, and the two had been captured by a legion of guards. "You know if Illya and I hadn't been close enough to mount a rescue, the two of you would likely have been executed."

"And the facility would have remained in operation," Illya said, making it clear that he regarded that as a far more serious problem.

"Yes, sir," Williams said, subdued.

"We'll be more careful in future," Leeson added.

"See that you are," Napoleon said seriously, looking at them both in turn. "Or else, eventually, there won't _be_ a future. You both have a lot of potential. Don't waste it."

They nodded, soberly, and left, closing the office door behind him.

Illya sighed and leaned forwards. "You know, I sometimes feel as though the quality of our recruits has started to degrade," he said. "Perhaps since we lost Carla Drosten."

"We didn't lose her, it turned out she'd been a THRUSH double agent all along," Napoleon pointed out. Hardly the same thing.

"But a very good judge of personnel," Illya argued.

He laughed. "Are you suggesting we outsource recruitment to THRUSH?"

"Hardly," Illya huffed. "Their recruits are hardly more competent than ours. A big red button marked 'please don't push'. I don't know whether I feel more embarrassed for them for trying it, or for us that it worked."

Not anyone's most shining moment, he would admit. "They're young," he said. "They'll learn. Maybe the problem is that _you_ are getting old, tovarisch."

Illya glared at him. "I do not think so. And if I _were,_ that would surely make _you_ ancient."

He smiled. "Ah, but my sunny disposition and active...social life...protects me. You'll be an old man before your time."

"I suppose that's the only way I'm likely to live to be an old man," Illya said.

"You see?" He shook his head sadly. "Pessimism prematurely ages you. Your glass is always half empty."

"I do not believe in half measures," Illya said seriously. "My glass is either entirely empty or completely full. My concern lies more with the size of the glass and its contents."

"I don't think that's the point of the saying," he said slowly.

"Then the saying is stupid," Illya said, getting to his feet. "Now, I think that we have both been stuck behind our desks too long. What do you say we go down to the gym and spar?"

That did sound like a good idea. He'd been taking care of his CEA duties all day, and it was important, there was no denying that, but sometimes he chafed at the responsibility and the lack of direct action. "Alright," he agreed. "But try and stay clear of the face this time, alright? I've got a date with Anthea this evening, and I really don't want to turn up with a black eye and a cauliflower ear."

Illya shrugged. "Then get better at dodging."

Oh, really. "Well if _that's_ your attitude," he said, vaguely threatening. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this. It was good to blow off steam every now and then.


	28. A Slow Day's Hunting

**A/N: A continuation of my previous story, The Office Cat.**

* * *

It was a slow day which for once Napoleon was relishing. Ordinarily he craved action, but following a series of overseas assignments that had taken them away from New York for close to two months he was enjoying the chance to get some breathing space and catch up on the changes around the office.

In particular he was enjoying meeting some of the new personnel, particularly Christie, the very blonde and very leggy new secretary who was proving very friendly and delightfully available. Bumping into her for a genuinely coincidental third time, he obligingly held the door open for her as she struggled with a stack of files. "Are you coming or going?"

She wrinkled her nose. "With all this racket I'm not so sure myself?" she said, looking to where new walls were being put up to create additional office space. If they carried on expanding like this, they would end up needing to build another sub-basement level.

"It must be annoying," he agreed, wincing as the whine of the electric drill started up again.

"You have no idea," Christie started to say, but she was interrupted by Josephine and Daphne sprinting towards them in a state of panic.

"Quick, stop him!" Josephine cried.

"Close the door!" Daphne shouted.

Reacting to the urgency in their voices, Napoleon reached for his gun, looking round sharply for the intruder, which was why he all-but-missed the small, grey, cat-like blur as it sped past him and out the door. "What...?"

"Oh, _no,_ " Josephine exclaimed, shooting Napoleon a dirty look as she ran out into the corridor. "Shpion! Here, kitty, kitty."

Napoleon took a step after her and peered down the corridor, but it was noticeably empty of cat. "What's going on?" he asked, reasonably enough in the circumstances, he thought.

Judging by the speed with which they turned on him, Josephine and Daphne disagreed. " _You_ let the cat escape," Daphne said with a toss of her hair.

"Oh, _dear,_ " Christie said, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh, I am so sorry."

Daphne patted her arm comfortingly. "That's alright, dear, you weren't to know. It's not _your_ fault."

Yes, but Napoleon hardly saw that it was his. "Well, I'm sorry too," he began, all conciliatory.

They weren't having it. "The poor thing is _terrified_ of that drill," Josephine said relentlessly. "We've been keeping him in communications well away from the noise, but he came wandering down here and we thought it would be safe because that door is _never_ supposed to be left open. For security. Albie said so."

"Isn't he a Section head?" Christie squeaked.

Yes, the head of Section III. But more to the point... "So am I," he pointed out to her.

"So you should definitely know better," Josephine said in triumph.

He sighed. "Look. The cat wears a badge the same as the rest of us. So it's perfectly possible to track him down through that."

Daphne looked at him disappointedly, her lips thinned. "He wasn't wearing the collar. He keeps taking it off."

"He...takes it off?" Napoleon blinked.

"Yes," she nodded. "Using the large pencil sharpener."

"Huh." He frowned slowly. "Maybe we should send him to Survival School."

"This isn't funny, Napoleon," Daphne snapped, and he remembered her sharp temper. "We need to find him. Do you know how dangerous this building could be for a cat?"

"I seem to remember making that point myself a time or two," he said mildly.

"Well, rather than stand there and say 'I told you so', don't you think you should go and find the cat?" Christie demanded.

There was quite the little crowd gathered around them now. Why did he have the feeling it could easily turn into a lynch mob? He gave his most charming smile. "Now, you know I'd love to help, but I really am very busy today."

Daphne opened her mouth angrily, but Josephine laid a restraining hand on her arm. "That's alright, Daphne, after all Napoleon _is_ a very busy. Far too busy to take care of his responsibilities."

"The cat is not my - " he began exasperated.

She kept talking right over them, still ostensibly addressing Daphne. " - and of course, it's also Napoleon's responsibility to break the news to Mr Kuryakin. But since Napoleon is so busy, maybe we should go ahead and do that for him too."

He froze. Ah...

Daphne smiled sweetly. "Oh, of course. Mr Kuryakin is very fond of that cat, isn't he?"

"Yes," Josephine nodded. "But I'm sure when Napoleon explains he'll understand. After all, they still need to work together, share an office together, share a hotel room while they're on assignments..."

Napoleon was fairly certain he heard someone at the back muttering 'I'll take his place' at that last one.

"And it's not like Mr Kuryakin is known for holding a grudge, is it?" Daphne added, wide-eyed and innocent. "Now, when is he due back in the office again?"

He sighed, "Alright," he said, knowing when he was defeated. "I'll go find the blasted cat."

"Good," Josephine beamed. "So glad you decided to take responsibility.

Illya was due back from teaching that class on demolitions at four. Looked like Napoleon was spending the afternoon cat hunting.

Napoleon had never exactly seen eye to eye with the office cat. Even leaving aside – grudgingly – the incident where it had tripped him and broken his leg, the annoying creature seemed to have an uncanny ability to know exactly when he was about to ask one of its chosen favourites out on a date, and would saunter up and twine itself around her legs until she inevitably succumbed to its demands for affection and picked it up. Whereupon it would turn and look at Napoleon with what he would _swear_ was an expression of malevolent smugness. He had the unnerving feeling that the cat regarded him as competition. Illya said he was delusional. Mind you, the last time he'd been about to suggest to Illya that they should have dinner together in had come the cat, right on cue, and seized his partner's attention in an instant.

It was somewhat disturbing. And very annoying.

That didn't mean he wanted any harm to come to the little beast though, quite apart from his worry about what Illya would say, and he checked the building assiduously, first of all looking in all the logical places that a scared cat might have thought to find a welcoming friend – communications, their office, the coffee lounge, the filing library – without any success. He was going to need to go about this more carefully. He tried the surveillance centre in security, but apparently the cameras didn't have a low enough view of the corridor to catch sight of the cat. Which had him raising an eyebrow; that was an oversight, surely? Okay, he didn't think THRUSH was that likely to attack them with an army of cats, but they had used remote control drones before.

Alright. So he had to do this the old fashioned way. He tried the commissary next, and no one there had seen the cat, but Ethel in the kitchen giggled good naturedly and gave him an open can of pilchards to try and attract the cat. They certainly smelled strongly enough that any passing cats should sit up and take notice.

It was amazing how difficult it was to appear properly suave and sophisticated when walking through headquarters with a can of fish. Napoleon somehow managed it regardless.

The lab was his next stop and Dr Franklin looked at him quizzically and said they didn't have any cats, but they _did_ still have the mutated rats he and Illya had brought back from the Pied Piper Affair, if he was interested.

He decided to pass.

Eventually, following a tip from a botanist on the fifth floor, he made his way up to the roof and found the cat sitting on top of the laser gun, daintily licking its paws.

He held up the can of fish enticingly. "Look at this, Shpion. I've got some tasty fish for you. Now, why don't you just wait there a moment, and I'll grab you, and we can both go back downstairs."

The cat looked at him curiously, his head tilted to one side. Then, with a dismissive little yawn that somehow put him in mind of Illya, he deliberately turned his back on Napoleon and started rubbing his paw over his ears.

"I'm going to take that as enthusiastic agreement," Napoleon said with an unwarranted degree of optimism. "Mostly because I really would rather you get off that very expensive and deadly gun." He edged closer like he was treading through a minefield and just as he was within ten feet, Shpion yawned widely, jumped down off the gun, and, with a challenging look at Napoleon, leapt up onto the low wall on the edge of the roof.

Hmmm. "That's really not the best plan," he told the cat, keeping his voice calm and soothing. "Why don't you come back here like a good cat?"

Really, he could probably get out of being blamed for letting the cat out in the first place. But the cat falling off the building? There wasn't any way of explaining that. With all the speed and reflexes of a highly trained professional with over a decade of field experience, he lunged forwards and grabbed thin air where a cat had just been.

Shpion darted madly off the roof and down the empty flag pole until he was hanging out over the edge of the city, staring back at Napoleon.

"Oh, this is much worse," he said wryly, his mouth a little dry. "I hope you know I'm not following you out there." But as he cautiously moved forwards, he looked at the metal pole consideringly. It was sturdy. It should bear his weight, if absolutely necessary. "I really don't _want_ to follow you out there," he said with feeling. "Wouldn't you rather be back downstairs? Where it's nice and warm and there are people to fuss over you and no sudden, deadly drops?"

Shpion looked unconvinced and sat back on his haunches.

Napoleon knelt down on the ground so he was at eye level and held out his hand. "I'll let you have a free go at Illya's fish," he offered. "Or if you really want to be outside, I could take you out for dinner. Chilled caviar, a roaring fire..."

Shpion's ears pricked up and, to his relief, the cat skipped quickly back along the flag pole.

"There, you see," he said, holding out his arms expectantly. "I'm glad we've reached an agreement and - "

The cat jumped from the wall to his back and used him as a launch pad to jump up and away.

"I think your negotiating skills leave a lot to be desired," Illya said from behind him.

Napoleon stood up slowly, brushing off his knees with as much dignity as he could muster. When he turned round, Illya was standing there with Shpion perched comfortably on his shoulder. "You're back early," he said. "Don't tell me you finally managed to intimidate your students so much that they decided they'd be better off blowing themselves up than taking the final exam?"

"No, but not for lack of trying," he said darkly as he scratched Shpion's ears. "There are a couple I do not wish to see on any missions."

He smiled. "Feel free to explain that to Mr Waverly."

"I would prefer not." Illya tilted his head and looked at him. "So I understand that you spent the afternoon hunting down this poor, defenceless animal. You must be _very_ proud."

He sighed. "You make it sound like I enjoyed it," he complained.

"You've always had it in for poor Shpion," Illya said. "I remember the time you kicked him."

"I didn't kick him, he deliberately got between my feet to trip me up," Napoleon said through gritted teeth. "And I'm the one who ended up with a broken leg."

"I recall it differently," Illya told him.

Napoleon stared. "You weren't even there."

"I heard all about it," Illya said infuriatingly. "From a reputable source."

"Oh, let me guess, the cat told you," he said sarcastically.

"He tells me everything," Illya said without a trace of whimsy. "He is my spy within headquarters. And I believe you owe us both dinner with caviar."

"Ah, I don't think I agreed to that," he protested mildly.

He would swear that Illya and the cat wore an expression of identical smugness.


	29. Passing the Time

**A/N: Written for an impromptu challenge on Section VII for national grouch day.**

* * *

"You know, I still - "

" - _don't_ say it."

"Fine."

"..."

"..."

"I can hear you thinking it."

"I'm pretty sure that blow on the head didn't give you psychic powers, partner mine."

"No, but I can read your air of insufferable smugness like a book."

"My, my, someone certainly woke up on the wrong side of the cell today."

"An unlikely prospect since we are _chained together._ And with your snoring, sleep is sadly a distant memory."

"I don't snore."

"Not when you are awake, no."

"Nor when I'm asleep. Believe me, someone would have told me by now."

"You have a lot of faith in the honesty of your conquests."

"I've got none at all in yours, at least in this mood."

"...I am prepared to admit that the snoring is new, and perhaps is linked to the fact that your nose currently looks like someone hit you with a frying pan."

"Someone _did_ hit me with a frying pan. Remember? Tovarisch?"

"Ah. Yes."

"..."

"It was dark. I may have a concussion. You cannot blame me."

"I don't believe a word of blame crossed my lips."

"No, but I could hear your - "

" - insufferable air of smugness. Yes. What's eating you anyway?"

"In these conditions I dread to think. Fleas, lice and rats, I should imagine."

"Funny, tovarisch."

"I was not joking."

"Of course not. Captured twice in six hours. I have to agree, this isn't our best day."

"And there it is again."

"Did I say anything? And don't even bring up my smugness or whatever."

"It was not my fault that we were captured again."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Oh, just say it."

"No, no. I wouldn't want to risk adding to your bad mood."

"Napoleon, I am warning you - "

" - I still say we were going in the wrong direction."

"Yes. That was it."

"Well, how do _you_ explain that we didn't - "

" - I was navigating by the stars. So unless you are telling me that you believe THRUSH have moved around the stars, or we are in a different hemisphere than we were this morning, I would have to disagree."

"You were navigating by the stars."

"Yes."

"It was cloudy."

"There were breaks in the clouds."

"Occasionally."

"You cannot blame me."

"Watch me, pal."

"Your problem is that you do not understand the ways of the wilderness."

"Don't give me that, you grew up in a city."

"That doesn't mean I don't understand - "

" - except that we got recaptured by THRUSH. Because we were going the wrong way."

"We were not going the wrong way. It was simply - "

" - that THRUSH moved the road?"

"Hrmph."

"Wait. Quiet. I think the guards are coming."

"At last."

"..."

"..."

"Grouch."

"You are insufferable."

"Ready?"

"Of course."


	30. The Limits of Friendship

**And another chapter posted today, which brings us up to thirty. Not bad going for 5 months**

* * *

 _Twang_!

The rubber band flew across the room and hit the wall just behind Illya's head. Ah, so close and yet so far. Biting his tongue in concentration, Napoleon carefully selected his next piece of ammunition and squinted at his target.

Illya was sitting at his desk, flicking between two piles of papers and diagrams – one in Japanese and one in Russian - and comparing them to a small heap of electrical components in front of him. Honestly, Napoleon wasn't quite sure what he was doing, and at this point it was a matter of pride not to ask. He could have been attempting some new breakthrough of science and engineering, or he could have been trying to repair his record player. After all, it didn't matter.

He lined up the band...

 _Twang._

Victory! The rubber band sailed gracefully and came to a peaceful rest, nestled on top of Illya's head. He didn't flinch or look up. "Do you want something, Napoleon?"

He lounged back in his chair and smiled. "I was thinking of going out for some lunch to the deli down the street. Are you - "

" - yes," Illya interrupted. "A turkey on rye with potato chips and pickles. Thank you."

Hmm. That hadn't exactly been what he'd had in mind. He stared contemplatively at his partner for a long moment. "You know, I'm not sure this is my table."

Eyes still on the paper he was reading, Illya pulled out his money clip and dropped it onto the table. "If you want a tip, that is not the attitude you should be adopting."

Shaking his head, he took the money – enough to buy them each a sandwich, because if Illya was going to be like _that_ he could most certainly buy his long-suffering partner some lunch. "See you in a bit."

He left via Del Floria's and strolled towards the deli. It was a nice day, and he wasn't thinking about anything in particular, when a man suddenly burst out of an alley and started to spray him from some sort of cannister, drenching him from head to toe.

"What..." It smelled like gasoline. Oh, this was not how he wanted to spend his lunch hour.

Someone screamed somewhere behind him as the man drew out a long pipe and pressed a button until a small flame burst out the end. He had less than a second to think. If that touched him, he was going to die, in a particularly horrible way. The street behind him was packed with people; if he tried to run he wouldn't get far, not to mention that someone else might get hurt. Instead, he charged towards his would-be-murderer, desperately trying to judge the right angle to send the pipe flying out of his hand. As he slammed into the man he heard the clatter as it tumbled away further into the alley. Alright. That was one danger gone, but he was still fighting, dodging and throwing punches.

The man seemed off balance though. Probably he had expected Napoleon to be on fire and screaming by now. At any rate, he was quickly able to get the upper hand, forcing his attacker back against the wall with no place to go.

"Now," he said mildly as he advanced. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me exactly who you are and who you work for?"

He saw it too late; the man's hand darted into his pocket and brought out a cigarette lighter, holding it against Napoleon's gasoline-soaked jacket.

The flames caught instantly. Cursing, he stumbled backwards, the blistering pain and the heat scorching across his chest as he tried to remove his burning clothing, or beat the flames out, or _something._

Time seemed to go in slow motion, but then, somehow, Illya was there, roughly knocking him to the ground and tearing off his jacket, pants and shirt, forcibly rolling him across the alley floor, until all the fire was out.

He lay still for a moment, experimentally checking himself over, and beneath the adrenaline he could feel the heat of the burns on his hands and chest, and the bruising around his shoulders – Illya had hardly been gentle – but he didn't think it was too bad.

"Thanks," he said to Illya as he sat up gingerly, wrinkling his nose at the filth from the alley floor covering him. "What brings you here anyway?"

"Ketchup," Illya said succinctly, helping him to stand, and then sit on a handy crate when it became clear to both of them that standing was a tall order.

"Ketchup?" he repeated, blinking.

"For the sandwich," Illya elaborated.

"Ah." He took a deep breath. "That's got to be the first time my life's ever been saved by a condiment." He twisted his head around, half stretching, half searching. "Is he - "

" - gone," Illya said flatly. "He ran when I appeared."

Napoleon pursed his lips. "You let him get away?"

Illya looked at him exasperatedly. "I'm sorry. You were occupying most of my attention. Perhaps next time you would prefer that I leave you to burn to death."

"Ah, perhaps I'll let you off this time," he said.

"So kind." The reply was positively dripping with irony. "You are going to need to go to medical. That may be more assassins lurking around. I will have them send transportation around."

"Right..." He gazed unhappily down at his bare chest and his now-garbage-covered boxers. This wasn't the way he liked to be seen.

Wordlessly, Illya took off his jacket and passed it over.

Napoleon shrugged it on, forbearing to complain about the material...or the cut...or the colour. But he did look up at his partner hopefully. "You know, that wasn't actually the part of me I wanted covered."

"Hrmph." Illya looked at him levelly. "Napoleon, I will save your life any time. But I will not give you my pants."

Right. So much for friendship.


	31. You Can Check Out Anytime You Like

**A/N: I was saving this one for Halloween, but looking at the challenges on Section VII for next week, I suspect there will be plenty more Halloween fic. So let's start with this one.**

 **A/N2: Slight reference to the Stone Tape, which is not quite contemporary.**

* * *

The echoing of their footsteps across the gleaming white marble floors was the only sound apparent. Napoleon found himself checking his gun frequently, as if to confirm it was still there. Immediately it was obvious something was wrong here; a cup of coffee lay cold and abandoned on the table, luggage was piled in front of the desk as though the owners had simply stepped away for a moment, and the bell hops trolley stood empty, half blocking the elevator door. Everywhere there were signs of human life and yet actual humans? Not a trace.

Illya picked up a clipboard and pen from behind the desk. "This is half filled in," he reported. "Apparently a Mr and Mrs Van Byuren were checking in."

Napoleon checked the luggage tags. Yes. That matched. "It's like the Marie Celeste," he said, his voice low and who was he afraid would overhear them?

"People don't just vanish into thin air," Illya stated with just a ripple of uncertainty.

He looked around. "Sort of flying in the face of all available evidence there, pal," he said wryly. "Come on. We'd better check this out further."

Their attention had been brought to this place – a luxury resort on a lonely island near Mauritius – by the discovery that THRUSH appeared to be using it as an R&R centre for operatives in high favour. Monaghan had been sent in, primarily to plant as many bugs and tracking devices as he could, and the operation had appeared to be a complete success up until his final communication.

" _Nothing new to report, I – wait! Something's happening...something's wrong! I can...I can see...No! Oh, God, no, get back! Get away_ \- "

The sheer terror in his voice had made Napoleon shudder. After that, the line had gone dead. And according to Section IV, subsequent attempts to reach him indicated the communicator had been destroyed. What's more all attempts to reach the resort by conventional means – phone, radio – had been met with silence. It was as if the place had ceased to exist and now Napoleon could see why.

"According to the plans there is a security office through there," Illya said, pointing through the screen doors and towards a low building on the other side of the courtyard. As good a place to start as any. The heat of the sun hit them as soon as they stepped outside and the light flickered merrily over the deep blue water of the pool. Dotted here and there were abandoned towels, sandals, drinks, a book or two beneath the trees...in this weather, in this size of hotel, he would have expected to see dozens of peoples out here. Where were they?

The door was locked but that didn't give Illya pause. The building was empty too, but there was a bunch of monitors all showing static.

"There does not appear to be any physical damage to the system," Illya said after a moment of careful examination. "Someone may have planted a jammer by every camera. Hmmm." He pressed a few buttons and the monitors were suddenly showing the jetty, the path leading up to it and the main entrance.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Cameras _outside_ the hotel work?"

"Yes," Illya said. "I will rewind." The scene didn't change but the time ticked back slowly. Napoleon sighed and looked around the room for other oddities. The floor was dirty but when he scuffed his foot across it, the white shone through immediately. "Odd that they'd use the marble outside the public areas," he commented. He'd snuck through enough hotels to know that wasn't normally the case.

"A stone indigenous to the area, perhaps?" Illya suggested. "Ah. There." For the first time people appeared in the image; an older couple and a boatman walking up from the jetty and into the front door. He took careful note of the luggage; the Van Byurens. And the time stamp said 12:06. "Three minutes before Monaghan's last message," he said grimly. Meaning whatever had happened had been quick.

"And no one has exited since then, meaning they must all be in the hotel somewhere," Illya said.

"Or there's another exit," Napoleon suggested, imagining all the hotel guests being gassed and dragged somewhere – experimented on?The trouble was, there had been absolutely no indication that THRUSH had been doing anything nefarious here. All Monaghan's reports had agreed, this was simply a resort where THRUSH agents happened to be. Surely they wouldn't run experiments on their own people. Although really, by now, he should have learned to expect anything of them.

Either way they were going to need to search the place completely. Illya stopped as they stepped outside. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

Napoleon listened for a moment. "No," he said in sudden realisation. There was silence. No birds, no insects. It wasn't just _people_ that had vanished, there was no life here at all.

They exchanged a long look but said nothing.

Back inside, they started making a methodical search, room to room. He wasn't surprised when they didn't find anyone; just more abandoned belongings. Here and there they found upturned chairs, signs of a disturbance, but nothing to suggest what might have happened. He couldn't think of a way that a hotel could simply empty of people.

Worse, it didn't quite _feel_ like an empty hotel. There was a certain feeling one found in empty buildings and he didn't feel it here. It was as though there were people somewhere nearby, whispering just out of earshot. He noticed Illya looking round as well.

"Did you hear something?" he asked, almost hopefully. He would prefer this wasn't just his imagination playing tricks on him.

"I saw something," Illya told him in an undertone, staring further down the corridor. "Something moving."

He looked. There was nothing. "A shadow, maybe?" he suggested.

Illya looked at him. "Haven't you noticed?" he asked conversationally. "There are no shadows."

What? He turned sharply to the wall and experimentally raised his hand, the light behind it, but the wall stayed white and gleaming, not even a hint of his shadow. Oh. He drew a sharp breath. "So what could cause that?"

"The right light conditions...?" Illya suggested, sounding like he was grasping for a rational explanation.

Maybe this marble was more than just reflective, maybe it was its own light source. Was that even possible? Was anything here possible?

"Room 201," he said, nodding at the next door. "That was Monaghan's room number. Maybe he left us a clue."

"Doubtful, as he started off saying he had nothing new to report," Illya pointed out, but they went in anyway.

He shivered. "It's colder in here, isn't it?" he asked. Actually, come to think of it, it had been cold throughout most of the hotel.

Illya reached up and checked the AC. "It's off," he said.

"Off?" He raised an eyebrow. "It's almost a hundred degrees out there, without air conditioning, this room should be an oven."

But it wasn't. In fact, it was getting colder. And the voices he hadn't quite been able to hear before were getting louder, a constant whisper now, emanating from the walls.

" _Nothing new to report, I – wait! Something's happening...something's wrong! I can...I can see...No! Oh, God, no, get back! Get away_ \- "

That was Monaghan. His last words. And there were shadows moving through the walls now, dark and unsettling, reaching out towards him.

" _I can't...I can't see. I can't...where am I? Help me! Help me,_ please..."

The things – shadows – seemed to be coming out of the walls now, tendrils made of cold and nothing. He ran for the door, pulled it open, but there was a void out there, endless shadow on white marble and no escape.

The whispers were everywhere now. Not just Monaghan.

" _Let me go! I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

" _I don't want to die."_

" _You're so warm. Let me inside."_

" _I don't know where I am. Please, someone, help me."_

" _Mommy, mommy!"_

Illya was staring fixedly at the wall, and when Napoleon looked as well, shielded his eyes, he could almost make out Monaghan's face in the shadows, almost hear the terror and the desperation and the pleading, and Illya reached out a hand towards the shadow...

"No!" Napoleon pulled him back, acting on sheer instinct. "We need to get out of here." He dragged Illya, unresisting, to the window. The bright sun did nothing to dispel the cold or the shadows, but the pool was directly below them, and he thought it might just be their only chance. "We need to jump!" he yelled, struggling to make himself heard over the whispers.

He was relieved when Illya nodded, and more so when he grabbed his wrist and the two of them leapt forwards at a single, silent nod. Time seemed to slow as they hung in the air, and then there was a splash and the water was cold and heavy all around him, and the pool tiles were white and gleaming, and just for a second he could see a man's body floating in the water directly in front of him, indistinct and translucent and still-alive, and the eyes opened and the man _screamed_ and then suddenly Illya was pulling him up and out of the pool, and they were running together, running for the gate and for the safe, grey rocks beyond.

It was a long moment before he managed to catch his breath. A long moment before either of them managed to speak. "What the hell was that?" he said at last, as though he was expecting an answer.

Illya shook his head slowly and for a second or two he moved his lips and said nothing. "Some academics have posited the possibility of multiple realities and people slipping between them? It could be we witnessed people being caught in another dimension. Or there is a theory that 'ghosts' are simply images recorded on the physical environment by a means we don't understand. The Taskerlands facility have studied this and..." He shook his head, apparently not quite believing what he was saying. "I do not know."

"Yeah." Napoleon took a deep breath and then another, and gazed back towards the hotel. "Yeah. Me neither. I guess we'd better call this in and hope someone else has some ideas." He felt like he could still hear that whispering, and the cold that left its ugly fingerprints on his soul. "There are more things in heaven and earth..."

"A few too many for my tastes," Illya said softly.

Yes. He was inclined to agree.


	32. Not So Sweet

**A/N: Written for the HODOWE Sweetest Day challenge on Section VII**

* * *

"Sweets for sweetest day, mister?" the pretty blonde standing outside headquarters smiled at Napoleon innocently, holding out a tray of little boxes of chocolates, wrapped in silver foil and topped off with a delicate pink ribbon.

"Sweetest day, huh?" he asked as he took one, giving her an admiring look.

"Yes," she nodded vigorously. "We're giving out free samples for a new chocolatier's that's opening just down the block - Kimbles. He makes the best chocolates. The pineapple cream is amazing, I can't stop eating them."

"I can see that," he agreed, with an eye on her upper lip. "You know you've got a little...there."

"Oh! Thank you," she blushed. "I'm going to get in trouble, I've got another three blocks to cover before eleven. See you later."

He certainly hoped so. Contemplatively weighing the chocolates in his hand, he made his way inside. He'd half thought of giving them to Brenda at the desk, but by the looks of things, four other people had got there first and, by the expression on her face, it hadn't brightened her day one bit.

"Here," she snapped, thrusting his badge out at him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," she huffed. "I'm just fed up with this 'sweetest day' nonsense."

Ah. Wisely, he took his leave and waited until he was well out of sight before popping a piece of candy in his mouth. The girl had been right; the pineapple creams were delicious.

* * *

By the time he got to his office his good mood had all-but-evaporated, not least because he'd had to walk right through the middle of Carl and Mary Lou having a blazing row, right out in the corridor. They'd been dating for a while now, and they'd seemed so happy last week. He'd half been expecting Carl to ask for a transfer away from Section II. Just went to show...something.

He sighed, irritated to realise that there was no sign of Illya. They had a meeting in twenty minutes. As if he didn't have better things to do with his time than chase down his missing partner. Viciously he kicked the waste paper basket, but it didn't provide more than a fleeting second of satisfaction.

After hunting through the commissary, he eventually found Illya in his lab, apparently dissecting a piece of candy, like he didn't have a care in the world. How childish; his lip curled and, all patience evaporated, he let the door slam shut behind him. "What are you doing?" he demanded coldly.

Illya blinked up at him. "Someone was giving these away outside. I found it mildly suspicious and so thought I would check it out."

"Suspicious?" he repeated, exasperated. "It's for sweetest day. One of those holidays invented to make the retailers as much money as possible. I would have thought you would have already known all about it so you could properly rail against our decadent capitalist ways."

"Are you feeling alright, my friend?" Illya asked slowly.

Napoleon ignored him, solely focused on the taste of anger in his mouth. Illya was too calm, and it was infuriating. Deliberately so, he was sure. "It's free food, comrade, I would have thought that would be right up your alley. Why do you always have to be so suspicious?"

And now, even worse, Illya wasn't even listening to him, his eyes fixed on Napoleon's pocket where a piece of the pink ribbon from the candy was barely visible. "You took a sample? And now... Napoleon, I need to test that wrapper."

"Paranoid soviet bastard," Napoleon snarled, just for the pleasure of seeing Illya's face go still. "What did I ever do to get stuck with you? Oh, that's right, I drew the short straw because no one else wants to work with you. The dour, shortass communist with no imagination and stupid hair - "

" - Napoleon," Illya cut in sharply, holding his hands up placatingly. "You are not yourself. I would suggest you _stop talking now_ and sit down until -"

Not willing to listen to him talk a second longer, Napoleon punched him right in the face, as hard as he could, and somehow even the way his wretched partner stumbled back, and the split-second look of shock and hurt was enough to induce even more anger, and he threw himself into the fight wholeheartedly, punching and kicking, and ignoring all of Illya's attempts to talk to him.

 _"Napoleon, there was something in the candy...this is drug induced...you need to concentrate. Try and think past it...fight it."_

They knocked back against a bench covered in glass pipes and beakers, which smashed all around them, and he took advantage of the moment to snatch up a long piece of sharp glass and slash out with it, unfortunately only getting Illya's arm - for the moment anyway.

"Enough," Illya said, vaulting back over the bench. "Sorry," he said regretfully as Napoleon made to follow, and the last thing Napoleon saw before he passed out was his partner drawing his gun and firing.

* * *

He woke in medical, in restraints. The memories came flooding back almost immediately and he groaned and closed his eyes, hoping that maybe he could just wish the world away.

"Ah, you are awake," Illya said brightly - and inevitably - from the chair beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Not angry," he offered, rolling his head around to look, and wincing to see the bruises across Illya's face and the bandage around his arm. "It was the candy?"

Illya nodded. "A derivative of phencyclidine, causing aggression. It was being handed out by a girl on the street – a pretty one, no doubt, as you fell for it."

He jerked around, remembering. "She said she was going to hand them out all over the neighbourhood!"

"It's okay," Illya said reassuringly. "Only people going into our building were targeted. And in our highly professional and secretive organisation, almost a hundred people happily took candy from strangers."

Wonderful. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Fortunately, no," Illya said, and Napoleon breathed easier. "It seems that it was primarily the support staff who took the candy. You were the only one who went for a weapon. Well, except for Brenda. She grabbed a fire extinguisher and went after four members of Section III who will be putting in expense claims for some extremely foamy suits."

Suddenly he was glad he hadn't tried to pass the time with her. "What does Mr Waverly say?" he asked and some of that was apprehension and some of it was not quite being ready to confront the rest of reality.

"Ah..." Illya said slowly.

"Ah?" he repeated, frowning.

"He took a piece of candy that Sophie offered him," Illya explained.

Napoleon's imagination ground to a screeching halt. "I'm glad I was unconscious for that," he said fervently.

"I envy you."

They lapsed into silence for a couple of moments before Napoleon took a deep breath. "Illya...I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean anything I said."

"Mmmm." Illya said, his face betraying nothing.

"It was the drug," he tried. "All those things I said...that's not how I think of you."

"Oh, I know that," Illya said. "The drug did not push you into revealing deep truths, you were simply trying to hurt me."

And that was bad enough. "I'm sorry."

"Look at it this way, "Illya said with a sigh, leaning forwards. "It would have been worse had you targeted anyone other than me."

"Well, certainly, if I have to go into a murderous rage with anyone, I'm glad it was you," he said lightly, and that was true. Because when he imagined feeling that kind of anger with someone else, when he imagined lashing out at them as he had at Illya, his blood ran cold. An odd sign of friendship, perhaps, but at least he knew that Illya could cope with it...and forgive.

"It was not your fault," Illya told him. "It's not a problem, I will get over it."

"Thanks," he said, and he knew the guilt would be eating away at him for a while.

And speaking of eating...as he watched, Illya picked up a box of candies and popped one in his mouth.

Napoleon stared. "Uh...tovarisch?"

"Do not worry," Illya said serenely. "These were handmade by Lucy and delivered to you for sweetest day."

"To me?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Illya nodded, mouth full. "Yes," he said. "But in the circumstances, and considering the meaning of the holiday, I assumed you would be intending to share."

"Just to remind you, sharing is the one where something is offered," he said. "Stealing is the one where it's just taken."

"Hmmm." Illya pursed his lips. "As you can imagine, a dour communist with no imagination and stupid hair does not properly appreciate the distinction."

"I thought you had forgiven me?" he pointed out.

"Just because I have forgiven you does not mean I cannot hold a grudge," Illya said.

He stared. "And just to remind you, that's not what forgiveness means...are you going to let me out of here, hmmm?" He rattled the restraints meaningfully.

"No," Illya said calmly, eating another candy.

"Illya...Illya..."


	33. Spooky Ray's House of Horror

**A/N: Written for the short affair Halloween challenge on Section VII - prompt words were spooky and white**

* * *

"I find this amount of spider webs implausible," Illya commented as he brushed the stuff away to try and clear a path.

"I'm not so sure," Napoleon answered, a step behind and already stooping to avoid getting any of the webbing on his currently-immaculate suit. "Remember those catacombs in Gibraltar? For a moment I was sure you were going to get stuck."

He _did_ remember and now he came to think of it he really didn't particularly care to be reminded. "Still I feel they are overdoing the décor a little," he said. "And also I do not believe spiders count as 'spooky'."

"They're creating an atmosphere," Napoleon said easily. "Lighten up and enjoy."

Illya shot him a dark look. They were not here to 'enjoy'. They were supposed to be working, and if not for that fact he doubted it would have occurred to either of them to set foot in 'Spooky Ray's House of Horror'. But from what Laurelai Parker – a Section III courier currently recovering nicely from being both stabbed _and_ poisoned – could remember, this was where she had hidden the microfilm. If only she could remember more precisely _where._

"Ah!" He heard Napoleon cry out and turned to find his partner sprawled on the ground.

"What happened?" he asked quizzically.

"I just tripped over another corpse," Napoleon explained, sitting up and brushing off his jacket with dismay. "You would think they'd have better lights in this place."

"They are creating an atmosphere," he parroted back solemnly and now it was Napoleon's turn to offer a dark look. "Check the body for microfilm."

"Already on it, partner mine," Napoleon said. "Shine the flashlight on it, will you?"

He did, the light playing over the dummy's rubber face. It didn't exactly look like any of the myriad corpses _he'd_ ever seen. "You would think they would make more of an effort to have their props look realistic," he remarked. "This place is hardly frightening otherwise."

Napoleon laughed. "You know we get shot at most days and tortured every other week," he pointed out. "I'm not sure we're the intended targets here."

"Hardly every other week," he objected. "Even assuming a very loose definition of the word 'torture' to include any kind of physical coercion, the current rate over the past twelve months is closer to once every five weeks. Between us."

There was silence. Napoleon stopped what he was doing and stared up at him.

"With a marked increase over the summer months that I have not been able to satisfactorily explain," he added, his brow slightly creased.

"Maybe hot weather makes THRUSH crotchety?" Napoleon suggested. "Do you have this on a graph somewhere, tovarisch?"

"I looked through our old reports, " he said with a shrug, not really seeing the problem. "I was curious."

"Now _that's_ spooky," Napoleon told him, standing up and shaking his head. "Nothing there. We'd best move on."

They walked deeper into the haunted house, stopping to check every nook and cranny that looked like even a halfway decent hiding spot. The trouble was there was so many. It was worse than a needle in a haystack; in that situation at least you stood a reasonable chance had you thought to come prepared with a powerful magnet. Sadly in this situation a magnet would only serve to destroy the film and Mr Waverly would not thank them for that.

"Really, it's aimed at kids," Napoleon said contemplatively, as he carefully unwrapped a mummy that Illya was relatively certain was comprised primarily of toilet paper and plaster of paris. "Kids like to be scared every now and then."

"Hmmm." Illya remembered being scared a lot as a child. He did not remember liking it. "I suppose you used to take younger girls to places like this so that when they were appropriately terrified you could...comfort them," he suggested scathingly.

"Please, you wound me," Napoleon said, before his hurt look dissolved into a grin. "When I was a kid it was the allure of the older girls that always appeared to me."

He shook his head exasperated as he rummaged through a pit of rubber snakes. "You never change, do you?"

"Why should I?" Napoleon responded. "Come on, I know Halloween isn't celebrated in Russia, but didn't you have anything similar?"

 _Choking in a smoke-filled cellar, too scared to risk uncovering the door...huddled around the pitiful embers, rubbing their hands...childish voices whispering about what the Nazi's would do if they were caught, about who was dead and how much they had suffered..._

"Sometimes we told scary stories around the fire," he said and there was no pause and his voice gave nothing away and still Napoleon gazed at him sharply. He shook his head silently. No.

"When there's nothing at stake, sometimes being scared is fun," Napoleon went on after a second. "Sometimes - "

With an unearthly screeching, a wizened figure in a white, flowing dress exploded out of a coffin and hurtled itself towards them.

Two shots rang out and the figure dropped.

Mmm. Illya glanced down at the gun in his hand, then the gun in Napoleon's hand, and then at the now-obvious dummy with the two darts embedded in it's chest. "You were saying being afraid is fun?"

Napoleon crouched down by the dummy and theatrically felt for a pulse. "You know, I think it was already dead. Wait..." His expression changed and with a triumphant flourish he produced a tiny cannister. The microfilm.

"At last," he said. "Might I suggest that we...forget...some of the details of just how we found it?"

"I won't say anything if you won't," Napoleon said, standing up. "Come on, if you're good I'll buy you a candy apple."

Ah. Now there was a Halloween tradition he could agree with.


	34. Fireworks and Home

**A/N: Written for Guy Fawkes night. The people across the street from me are bound to stop setting off fireworks eventually, right? It's been about six hours...**

* * *

When Illya walked into the shared kitchen he was immediately confronted by a shapeless figure with a burlap sack for a face. Even in his current urgent quest for tea, that was enough to give him pause.

"Do we have a bird problem?" he asked Henry slowly.

Henry didn't look up from where he was clumsily sewing up an old felt coat around the...scarecrow? "Funny. Very funny."

It hadn't been intended as a witticism, he was simply confused.

"It's Guy Fawkes' night," James informed him, slightly more helpfully.

Ah. That actually told him something. It had been covered in one of his British Culture briefing packets. "Of course. Celebrating the failed Catholic revolt 1605," he nodded, mostly just to show that he knew what they were talking about.

"Well, not really _celebrating,_ " James temporised. "Really, it's just an excuse to have a bonfire and set off fireworks, I think."

Right. Who was he to judge? "Is there tea in the pot?"

"Yes, I just made one," Henry said distractedly. "On you go."

He poured himself a cup and then checked his shelf only to find that the pot of jam had been scraped clean and then put back.

"Oh, yes, I finished that this morning. Sorry," James said, not sounding particularly sorry. "Mine ran out last week."

"I see," Illya said evenly.

"This could be your chance to put sugar in your tea like the rest of us," James suggested, sniggering slightly. "You're lucky to have it, really. Just a few years ago it was still rationed, you know. I was sixteen before I even tasted sugar in my tea."

He said it like it was a terrible tale of deprivation. Illya stirred sugar into his tea and thought of home.

Strange how little things could make one homesick. Little differences. Perhaps it was entirely his imagination, but acts of unthinking petty theft like this seemed so much more common than they were back home. Oh, he'd had things blatantly taken from him by those in power, but that had been 'them' stealing from 'us'. Here he felt as though his fellows were more likely to take from him, and somehow it felt worse. Was he imagining that loss of solidarity, or had it really been there?

"Are you going to the bonfire tonight?" Henry asked after a moment, apparently content that whatever he was sewing was as good as it was going to get.

"I had not planned on it," Illya said, taking a sip of tea and scowling at the cup. Even with the jam it would never taste right. It was a poor substitute at best.

"You should," Henry urged. "You've been like a bear with a sore head lately."

A...bear? He understood the simile, he just wondered at it's aptness. Although in truth, he had been out of sorts of late. There had been a prominent French physicist Dr Fleury, visiting the college a couple of weeks ago, and he had been ordered to get close to him in order to take copies of his notes. It was a style of operation he particularly detested – he would far rather have simply broken into Fleury's rooms when he wasn't there to get the notes. That would have been simpler and less risky, but he'd had his orders. It did make him wonder whether it was him being tested and the notes were simply a tool. Perhaps someone was afraid he didn't have the stomach for this line of work. Which he did, he'd played his part flawlessly, it was just that it left a bad taste in his mouth. Fleury was no enemy agent, no threat to the Soviet Union. He was simply a lonely old man who had trusted a bright and eager student more than he should. Guile had its place but not like this, and not under his own name, in his own skin. He would far rather steal from a man than betray him. If it were up to him. Which it never was.

"So what do you do normally do on Guy Fawkes night?" he asked politely.

"Oh, you know. There's a big bonfire up on the green, and some of the fellows from Queens challenged everyone to bring a Guy to burn."

He looked at the dummy. "Is he supposed to resemble Guy Fawkes?" he asked curiously.

"I was going to make a moustache for him, but I don't think I'll bother," Henry said. "I don't suppose you know how to sew, do you?"

"No," he said, drinking more of his tea. Perhaps he would yet grow to appreciate it for what it was. "It seems odd that you would celebrate the torture and execution of a man by your monarchy. I thought that you cared more for your democracy these days."

"God, Kuryakin, you're such an arse. I told you, it's more about fire and fireworks," James said with a sigh. "There's going to be cider, and some of the girls from Newnham will be there. Do you want to come or not? I'm trying to be nice here."

He bit his tongue. "I will. Thank you." After all, he was supposed to be fitting in here, at least a little. Besides. Cider and fireworks and intelligent female company did sound as though it might make for a pleasant evening, whatever the meaning of the celebration. "There are fireworks?"

"Yes, well, there should be," Henry said with a grimace. "Clive got some, but they were very cheap and they don't look like they'll be up to much."

Hmmm. "May I see?" he asked.

"Uh, sure?" Henry said, sounding confused, and he pulled a cardboard box out from under the table.

Illya looked through it carefully. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. "I can work with these. I will need a penknife and some things from the hardware shop."

They both looked at him incredulously. "You're going to spruce up the fireworks?"

He flashed them a brief smile. "Why not?"

* * *

The fireworks he'd tampered with exploded in bright colours above and around them. Rather a good job, even if he did say so himself, and it seemed as though everyone agreed – including Genevieve, a very pretty anthropology doctoral student, who preferred to watch the lights while snuggled tight against his arm.

They cooked baked potatoes deep in the bonfire, and drank cider that had seemingly been spiked with something stronger. It was nothing compared to the bite of good vodka, but he wouldn't deny it was warming.

Henry's Guy had been committed to the flames with a loud cheer, along with several others of varying skill. Some of them had seemingly been intended to represent various professors with glasses, caps and at least one coat that he was fairly certain Dr Henessey was going to miss in the morning.

"I have to admit, I'm impressed, Kuryakin," James said, as he lit a couple of fountains and returned to his place beside Genevieve. "Where did you learn to do that?"

A personal question. He thought about days spent down by the river with Pavel, combining chemicals in bottles and measuring the explosions with all the joy and delight of true scientists. It had been months now, since he'd heard from Pavel. He wouldn't be able to contact him until he was back in the USSR, and that might not be for a long time.

He gave a crooked smile and chose not to answer directly. "Fireworks are very popular back home. We celebrate Great Socialist Revolution Day with them."

"Oh, of course," James said uncomfortably.

"Do you have bonfires as well?" Genevieve asked.

"Sometimes," he said. "But we don't burn - "

He was interrupted by the sound of whooping as a bunch of students ran up the hill, carrying a dummy that was wrapped in a red flag, the hammer and sickle clearly visible. "Death to. Communists!" one of them yelled. Illya recognised him; Ernest Lowington. He'd been glaring at him across the table in formal hall last week. "Down with the revolution!"

He tensed imperceptibly, knowing as Ernest looked around, that he was looking for him.

"Ah!" Ernest came striding up to him, brave with his friends behind him, their night clearly fueled by something stronger than the cider. "Our own local _comrade._ Maybe we should burn the commie spy. Better dead than red!"

"Leave him alone," Genevieve said angrily, but she was already leaning away from him, her discomfort obvious.

"...right," Henry added, the agreement obviously out of reluctant duty.

They were not his friends. They never had been his friends, and he did not expect them to defend him. He didn't _want_ them to defend him.

He stood up and rolled his shoulders, his stance loose but ready. "I have to ask, where did you get the flag?"

Ernest glared at him. "How do we know you're not a spy?"

Well, that was a rather interesting question. "I would hope if you truly believed I might be a spy you would not confront me like this," he said with a quirk of his lips. Just the fact that the question was asked was bad for him, even if it was only be a bunch of rowdy drunks. Winning the incipient fight would be even worse.

"Oh yeah?" Ernest growled, looking round at his friends for back up.

"Ah, the epitome of civilised debate," Illya agreed, and he casually took a step back and dropped a lit firework in front of him.

It exploded immediately in a riot of colour and smoke that nicely covered his sprint away from them to the other side of the bonfire. He carefully dropped a few more, rockets that shot into the sky bursting into blooms of light, and the crowd pushed forwards to watch, surrounding him, loud exclamations of wonder and delight echoing in his ears.

Ernest and his friends were over on the other side, jostled by the other students, seemingly having lost the momentum of their attack. He'd need to move before they spotted him again.

For the moment though, he tilted his head back and watched his explosions in the sky, feeling far from home and utterly alone.


	35. But it's not Halloween

**A/N: Written for the Halloween bonus episode challenge on Section VII. And the title is rather more apt when this is being posted on November 6th**

* * *

Joining THRUSH had been a good decision, Zark thought on reflection. It was good to be surrounded with like-minded people who saw the cowering masses were calling out for true leadership, to be ruled by the new aristocracy. Not to mention the funding for his research was very nice indeed.

For the moment it did mean he had to put up with the occasional interloper peering over his shoulder, or with periodic summons to explain his work or be given some new tasks to complete, but he could live with that for now at least. One day soon he would be in charge of THRUSH and all would leap to do his bidding. Finally, he was building his reputation among the hierarchy. How often now had he met some new THRUSH comrade-in-arms and heard the same refrain? "Oh, _you're_ Zark...I've heard of you." Already he was infamous.

It was a good thing to remind himself of as he was shown into Ritter's office and forced to wait like some common tradesman while the man who was, after all, little more than a glorified secretary, finished his reading.

"Ah," he said at last. "Zark."

"Count Zark," he corrected stiffly.

"It's good to see you," Ritter said distantly. "How are your bats? May I offer you a drink? Brandy?"

He made a noise of disgust. "I do not drink...brandy."

Ritter sighed and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose. "Of course you don't. Now, what progress have you made?"

Zark launched full throated into a passionate account of his work, the way he'd overcome the problems of redirecting his bats natural sonar, the issues he'd had with their hunting instincts, and, just as he was demonstrating their flight patterns, he flung his arms wide and somehow knocked over a vase that had been perched on a pedestal. "Ah, I am sorry," he said. "Was it important?"

"Priceless," Ritter said colourlessly.

"Ahaha, no matter," he said. "Now, where was I?" He continued with his presentation, reeling off an endless litany of challenges and successes that would dazzle anyone, but that stuffed shirt of a man just sat there with the same vacant frown, occasionally glancing down at the file in front of him.

"Yes, thank you," he said quickly when Zark paused to draw breath. "You know, I think I have a task that's perfectly suited for your talents. You're the only one who could pull this off."

His heart swelled with pride. Finally! Recognition. "What diabolical endeavour must I, Count Zark, undertake?"

* * *

Three days later found him milling around a society party in some confusion. Apparently this gathering was host to all sorts of important dignitaries and, in order to show them they were safe nowhere, he was to stage a robbery. Ritter had explained that with his air of obvious aristocracy he was the obvious choice for this important operation. And that was true, but it certainly didn't explain why that old lady was staring at him anxiously.

He stared back.

"You know, it's not a halloween party," she told him gently.

He frowned darkly. "I am aware. Ahaha. I am here for your money and your jewels. Give them to me or face the wrath of the children of the night."

"Oh!" She clapped her hands together. "You must be the charity collector. For the new children's hospital, right? Cissy said one of you would be by."

He tried to argue but she pulled out a purse and started fishing out bank notes and thrusting them towards him and he just automatically started to pile them into the bag he'd brought with him.

"And you can have my brooch too, that'll do for jewels, right? It's an ugly thing anyway."

"Thank you," he said confusedly.

"Now then..." She turned and with an astoundingly loud voice called "Everyone! The charity collector is over here. Please give him all your money or he will suck your blood."

There was a ripple of laughter and he flushed furiously. But then the entire party was stampeding towards him with their wallets outstretched. Why not just take their money? Evidently they were so afraid of the mere presence of Count Zark that they found it easier to simply surrender.

After a few minutes he heard police sirens coming from the street below, Clearly it was time to make an exit, swiftly and with style...although he did wonder who had called the police? He had cut the phonelines before he ever approached the party.

Still, there was no time to wonder now. "Away! I go now, like mist into the night," he announced loudly, and he jumped through the nearest window with a crash of glass and fell onto the fire escape. He quickly escaped up onto the roof and vanished into the darkness on the wings of his faithful black hang-glider.

* * *

Over breakfast the next morning he was gratified to see headlines regarding THRUSH's theft of a prototype thought-implanting device from a nearby university. Two successful operations in one night.! Ahaha, they were certainly going places. It seemed as though the police had been decoyed away from the university by a false report of a robbery. Such fools!

He was a little disappointed not to read of his own heist in the papers, but no matter. No doubt his name was being whispered in all the halls of power. THRUSH...UNCLE...soon all would know Count Zark!


	36. Passive Aggressive Warfare

**A/N: Written for the pic fic challenge on Section VII**

* * *

If they had achieved nothing else this week, at least they had demonstrably found the most condescending man in the world. Martin Laing of MI6, who had discovered THRUSH had infiltrated the group he was investigating and had agreed to share responsibility 'to show them how it was done'. So far he had spent twenty minutes explaining the history of men's fashion to Napoleon, including a detailed description of the correct way to tie a neck tie, half an hour explaining the difference between Semtex 1a and H and the 'perfect' placement of detonators to Illya, and almost twenty minutes explaining to _both_ of them the differences between KGB and THRUSH tactics.

Their standing orders were to be polite and try to maintain good relations with their allied agencies. Sometimes that was just plain impossible.

"We could kill him," he suggested contemplatively, as they waited in the lobby for Laing to reappear. "We could even make it look like an accident."

Illya just looked at him, but then Illya hadn't been trapped in the car with the man, listening to him explain how UNCLE's equipment might be top notch, but it's agents and tactics were shockingly behind the times, particularly their insistence on working in partnerships. One agent, apparently, could achieve more than two.

"Ah, there you are old chaps," Laing said as he came out the elevator, rubbing his hands together for all the world as though they had been keeping him waiting. "Shall we get on? Those bugs aren't going to plant themselves you know. Oh, I've got a few tips to share with you for that which you probably haven't seen before. It's always good to learn, you know?"

Behind his back they exchanged a long and expressionless look. "We will be passing a river," Illya said in an undertone as they followed Laing outside.

Tempting. Definitely tempting

* * *

Matters only grew worse when they made their report to Mr Waverly and he made a point of asking about Laing. Napoleon was seized by the sudden dread that he might be asking with an eye to recruitment. Now there was a terrible thought. Their organisation had enough egos to contend with.

He could see the same thought written across Illya's face. "He is very difficult to work with, sir."

Mr Waverly snorted. "I've heard the same thing said about you."

Napoleon started to smirk.

"That's _both_ of you, Mr Solo," Mr Waverly added firmly.

The smirk vanished abruptly and Napoleon was left wondering just how it was that the old man could seemingly read his facial expressions through the communicator.

"Yes, sir," he said and continued with the report. Afterwards, though, he had plenty of cause for complaint. "What have I ever done that makes me so difficult to work with?"

Illya glanced at him. "Would you like the list alphabetically or chronologically?"

Really. Napoleon clicked his tongue. "I'm sure there's still time for you to work with Laing instead. If you'd rather."

"You're not quite that bad," Illya conceded, stretching out on the sofa with a sigh.

"How is it that Mr Waverly always knows what I'm thinking?" he asked gloomily.

"He has spies everywhere," Illya said darkly.

Napoleon considered that for a long moment. "Well, yes," he agreed slowly. "He does. We're two of them."

Illya shot him a look of profound irritation, and really, Napoleon wasn't sure what he was so irritated about.

* * *

The final straw with Laing came that night when Napoleon woke to the realisation that someone was walking across the floor towards him, trying not be heard. Illya? No, he would recognise his partner's step. Someone had broken into their hotel room. He lay still a moment longer until the figure drew level with the bed, then he lashed out and grabbed him. At the same moment, the light flashed on, courtesy of Illya, and they both saw Laing standing there frozen, Napoleon's communicator clutched in his hand.

"Put it down," Napoleon ordered coldly, his words backed up by the fact that Illya had his gun trained on the other agent's head.

"Ah, well," Laing said ruefully. "You can't blame a fellow for trying. You UNCLE boys really do have all the best toys. What's a little espionage between friends?"

Illya made no move to lower his gun. "Get out. Now."

"Fine, fine." He held his hands up and sniffed loudly. "You know, if you worked for a respectable organisation they wouldn't make you share a room like this."

They said nothing, staring at him in icy silence until he was gone.

"I would hate to see his expense claims," Napoleon said as he double checked the locks on the door. "It must cost a fortune to wash away that much slime out of a suit."

"Mmm." Illya looked thoroughly irritated and Napoleon was glad he wasn't the target. "I will take first watch."

He sighed. It was ridiculous that they had to take that kind of precaution. Especially against a supposed ally. "Wake me in a couple of hours."

* * *

As it turned out, he didn't wake up till the alarm went off at six. He sat up with a frown and looked across to where Illya was sitting on the sofa, looking at something on the coffee table. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I got to thinking," Illya explained enigmatically, not looking round.

Napoleon nodded and carefully didn't rise to the bait. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Aren't you going ask what I was thinking about," Illya asked. Annoyed.

Napoleon smiled. Annoyingly. "I assume if you'd wanted me to know you would have told me," he murmured.

"Very well," Illya said with his most put-upon sigh. "What do you think of this?" He plucked the object off the coffee table and held it aloft in triumph. It appeared to be a white cylinder with various flashing lights and buttons across it.

Mmmm. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "And what am I looking at?"

"This is what will win the war against Laing."

He nodded philosophically. "And here I didn't even know war had been declared." Not that he was inclined to object. Sometimes it really was just best to go along with it.

* * *

There were six guards gathered at the entrance to the mine. Laing drew his gun. "Why don't you take the one on the left with that toy pistol of yours and I'll take the other five?" he offered.

"A better idea," Napoleon smiled. "Why don't I just use the hypno-grenade?"

"The _what?"_ Laing demanded.

Napoleon carefully drew the cylinder out of his jacket. "Don't look directly at it," he advised. "As soon as I throw it, turn your head."

Laing did, and of course when he turned back the cylinder was lying in the centre of a pile of unconscious guards, still flashing merrily away.

"A useful toy," Napoleon noted as he bent and picked it up, tucking it away in his pocket. "Reusable too."

"Really?" Laing's eyes glinted greedily.

"And you should see what the scaled up version can do," he added before immediately looking regretful. "Oops. That's classified. "

"Of course, of course, I understand, old boy," Laing oozed, and Napoleon could practically see the calculations ticking over. "Well, shall we?"

He let Laing go in first and only then glanced back to the guard tower where Illya was comfortably in position with his night vision goggles and special. Six guards darted in three seconds. He was never going to hear the end of this.

* * *

The affair ended in spectacular success. Neither of them were exactly surprised when their luggage unaccountably went missing at the airport. They'd already made sure that everything important was already out of it. And they were even less surprised when it reappeared completely intact, except that the 'hypno-grenade' was missing. They exchanged a quick smile. "Drinks?" Napoleon suggested.

"Dinner," Illya countered.

And that was that, until they were called to Mr Waverly's office the next week. "Ah, Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin. I don't suppose either of you would be able to shed any light on the fact that I've had M on the phone demanding to know why one of his agents came back insisting that he could hypnotise people with a piece of flashing plastic?"

This time he carefully didn't look at Illya. "Ah, no, sir," he said. "I really can't imagine."

"That's what I thought," Mr Waverly said, all his attention focused on lighting his pipe. "Don't let it happen again."

They wouldn't. Unless, of course, they had to.


	37. Shooting Games

**A/N: Over a 100 reviews for this! Thank you all so much!**

* * *

It all started with tequila shots, which probably should have been a sign that it was a mistake. It was a truth which should be universally acknowledged that any plan that started off with tequila was almost certainly terrible, April thought anyway. And since in this case it had led to the four of them sitting on a plane back to the US in sullen, hungover silence, nursing a collection of scrapes and bruises and barely speaking to one another, she doubted any of the others would disagree.

The end of their current assignment had happened to coincide with the anniversary of her joining Section II which was admittedly a cause for celebration. Except that since they were in the-middle-of-nowhere, Mexico, that left them with the town's one bar and a choice between suspiciously pale beer and the tequila. They had opted for tequila and about halfway down the bottle, the conversation had turned to all the less obvious skills for a spy – such as good alcohol tolerance – and, naturally enough, an argument about who had the _best_ tolerance.

"I can drink ten pints and still shoot the wings off a fly," Mark boasted.

"Really, the trick is more finding ways to avoid drinking in the first place," Napoleon murmured diffidently.

"You are only saying that because you know you will lose," Illya said.

Naturally, Napoleon's attention was on him immediately. "Was that a challenge, tovarisch?"

"Only if you're feeling up to it," Illya replied, his tone effortlessly conveying his doubt, and _April_ had no doubt that Napoleon knew he was being played. Just that she also knew it was going to work.

She sighed loudly. "Honestly, darlings, not everything has to be a competition. But if it _is_ lets at least make it interesting." She fanned herself ostentatiously with her money clip.

All eyes were on her. "What do you have in mind?" Mark asked.

"There's a shooting range out back. How about thirty dollars each, one drink per clip, you fire until you miss the bullseye, your gun is empty, or you throw up. Three misses and you're out, winner takes all?"

For a moment they just stared. "You have been thinking about this, haven't you?" Illya said at last.

She smiled demurely. "A girl needs new shoes."

"You're on," Mark declared.

And so they moved outside and the tequila moved with them. "Before we begin," Illya said dryly. "Can we all check that we are not using live ammunition? Because I, for one, am not explaining any accidents to Mr Waverly."

Mark clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. If anything goes wrong you're _bound_ to be the one who gets shot. So you won't have to explain."

"That is a comfort," Illya said seriously.

Of course they were using darts. And the thing was, they were all world-class shots, it came with the territory. So the first four or five rounds passed in rapt concentration and each of them fired straight through the bullseye, drank, and fired more.

By the time they were well into the second bottle though, the world was beginning to swim in front of her eyes and focusing on the target was getting...tricky. So naturally, that was the time that they started making side bets between themselves, five dollars here and there on individual shots, betting on who was going to be the first to miss, betting on how long they were going to take aiming.

Her hands were shaking slightly. The others weren't much better – the tips of Mark's ears were crimson, there was a sheen of sweat on Napoleon's forehead, and Illya's accent was noticeably thicker. Although she couldn't help but notice that the last had coincided with the start of the betting, and that was something to be suspicious of.

In fact, there was plenty to be suspicious of. The tequila burned going down and they started playing dirty, distracting each other any way they could. She closed one eye, squinting through the other at the foggy target that seemed impossibly far away, while Illya leaned against the fence on her other side, telling Napoleon a series of increasingly dirty jokes.

"...and then the bear holds up the string of fish and says...'Not even a nibble?'"

She heard Mark choking behind her and her arm jerked in surprise and her shot went wide.

"Oops," Napoleon said regretfully. "Mark, you're up."

"You're cheating," she complained.

"There was nothing in rules said we could not cheat," Illya told her.

Maybe it was the tequila, but that almost made sense to her. She relinquished her spot and Mark moved up, stumbling slightly as he took his place, his gun already in his hand and for a moment she was worried he might just shoot himself in the leg. But no, he reached the range and started shooting, and he even managed to hit the target, albeit firing very slowly.

She heard Napoleon moving round until he was standing directly behind her and she half turned in time to hear him shout. "Mark! Behind you!"

And Mark turned, the gun wobbling in his hand, and he was facing her, he pulled the trigger, but the shot went wild...and a second later there was a high pitched whinny and the sound of galloping hooves coming towards them.

"Huh." Napoleon squinted over towards the field. "I think you just shot the horse in this one horse town."

The horse crashed through the fence towards them, bowling Mark over, and she and Illya rushed towards it, grabbing for the bridle, calming him down. "Easy, easy," she soothed, as she dug her heels in, slowing him to a stop and being knocked into the mud for her trouble.

"Будьте спокойны , красивый," Illya added, stooping and carefully examining the horse's legs, wincing slightly as it attempted to take a bite out of his shoulder. "I think he will be fine."

"Though I'm not so sure the farmer is going to agree," Napoleon said, as an old man holding a pitchfork rushed over, shouting angrily in Spanish.

In the end, they had to give him all the money in the betting pool to satisfy him. Which had ended up being all their expense claims for the month. This was going to make the actual celebration of her first year back in New York a little difficult.

She rubbed painfully at her elbow where she'd hit the mud and sighed.

"This is all Mark's fault for shooting the horse," Illya said with feeling, his hand pressed against the back of his head.

"No, it's Napoleon's fault for distracting him," April said firmly.

"I think it's your fault for suggesting tequila and guns at the same time," Napoleon said, annoyingly uninjured.

"I think it's Illya's fault," Mark said, his head slumped on the table. "I don't have to have a reason."

It was probably all of their faults. And it was probably the fault of the tequila. And - "We never did find out who the winner was."

There was a pause. "Try again when we get back?" Mark suggested brightly.


	38. Drabbles 2

**A/N: More drabbles, double drabbles or triple drabbles written for the Section VII drabble challenge**

* * *

 **Dying Sans Dignity**

"I'm just saying it lacks a certain something, that's all. Style. Dignity."

"You are looking for dignity in your convoluted death traps now?"

"It's just that crocodiles are traditional. Lions? Classic. Tigers and bears, I can understand, but - "

" - are you about to start singing the Wizard of Oz?"

"What? No! _What?"_

"Ah, well. You know, I do not think I have ever been thrown to the lions."

"You must have been...Wait, wasn't there that guy in Norway who wanted to sacrifice you to his lion-headed demon?"

"That does not count, that was simply a man in a rather inferior costume."

"Are you suggesting it would have counted if the costume had been better?"

"Perhaps. At any rate, that does not apply to our present predicament. _Those_ are not costumes."

"No, but still...I feel as though we're not being taken seriously here."

"You know, they can run at thirty miles an hour and kill more humans than any other mammal in Africa per year. Humans excepted, of course."

"Somehow, that doesn't help. It's just...being thrown to the _hippos._ We can never tell anyone about this."

* * *

 **For Science! You Monster...**

"Freeze!" Napoleon threw open the lab door and pointed his gun at Foster, who seemed unconcerned.

"Ah, you must be the one sent to rescue Kuryakin. Do you think you could give us an hour? We're on the verge of a breakthrough."

His gaze slid over to Illya, handcuffed but unharmed, and peering at the display on a machine that didn't look like a weapon.. "I'm here to destroy the doomsday gun,"

"I already did that," Foster said dismissively. "The fools wanted me to keep working on it even after Kuryakin pointed out the anomalies on the electromagnetic scans. It's like they didn't understand what that meant."

"It could revolutionise our understanding of quantum mechanics," Illya supplied helpfully.

Right.

"Exactly!" Foster beamed. "Dr Kuryakin has agreed to coauthor the paper with me."

"Yes, but I think we need to leave now," Illya said hastily.

"Oh, very well," Foster sighed. "I'll get my coat."

He walked away and Napoleon started to remove the handcuffs.."So..."

"It really is a remarkable discovery," Illya said wistfully. "I wonder if Mr Waverly would let me write that paper."

Napoleon smiled grimly. "Tell you what. If you're not very careful, I'll ask him for you."

* * *

 **Sharing**

The woman in the ragged dress pressed a bowl of gruel into his hands with a stern comment he couldn't translate but understood perfectly. He shook his head. She and her family had nothing while he had a whole life of luxury if he could only find his way back. Besides, he knew his limitations. He could last far longer than she.

But she scowled at him, wagging her finger in his face in a way that strangely reminded him of his babushka, a thought that for a moment made his muddled mind swim.

He took the bowl and smiled his thanks and then, when she wasn't looking, gave the food to her two young children.

* * *

 **Nothing Ventured**

Napoleon gazed out unhappily. "This could be a problem."

"I don't like the look of it," Mark agreed.

Illya shook his head gloomily.. "You could be pushing your luck too far, my friend."

Wait. " _My_ luck?" Napoleon demanded. "Why is this my job?"

"You are the senior agent," Illya pointed out.

"And the oldest," Mark agreed. "We have more to live for."

Napoleon shot them both a quelling look. It had a fifty percent success rate. "As CEA, I say - "

" - _I'll_ go," April interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, one rainstorm and none of you are willing to step outside."

* * *

 **Everyone Loves Halloween**

"Oh, Angelique, can I squeeze in here?"

"In that dress? I doubt it."

Angelique Le Chien and Narcissus Darling eyed each other for a long moment.

"I'm Marie Antoinette," Narcissus said, tossing her head. "My costume is entirely authentic. And you're...the whore of Babylon?"

Coldly. "Elizabeth Bathory."

"Famed for stealing the achievements of younger, prettier women. It suits you."

"Thank you. I hope you do remember what became of Marie Antoinette?"

There was another, deadly pause and then they smiled and exchanged air kisses. "It's good to see you again, Angelique."

"And you. It's a good turnout, isn't it?"

"Yes, it looks like everyone...wait, is that April Dancer over there?" Narcissus stared, disbelieving.

"Oh, no." Angelique smiled.. "That's Dr Egret's idea of a fun costume. Let's just not ask, hmmm?. So what are you hiding from anyway?"

"That pig Elom is looking for me again. He's just over there behind that man in the opera cloak."

"That's Zark. Don't make eye contact, whatever you do. Oops. Sorry, darling, looks like Elom's spotted you."

He came up to them, dressed like a self-conscious Zorro, planting slobbering kisses down her neck. "Narcissus. If I didn't know better, I might think you were avoiding me."

"Would you care for some punch?" Angelique offered, holding out a cup.

"Thank you," he said. "I like to get my appetite whetted."

He took it, drank it, and slowly toppled backwards onto the floor.

Daintily, Angelique kicked him. "Don't worry," she announced brightly to his shocked henchmen. "If he gets the antidote within, oh, the next two hours, he should be fine."

Across the room a gunshot rang out.

Narcissus turned. "Looks like someone tried to grope Dr Egret again..."

Angelique shrugged prettily. "It would hardly be the annual THRUSH halloween party without a couple of dead bodies."

* * *

 **Disaster of his own making**

Napoleon had known seeing Marie and Suzanne in the same week would end disastrously. Still, he thought, surveying his green-paint spattered apartment, he'd never thought it would be this bad.

At least the girls had made up through agreeing what a pig he was.

He couldn't stay here tonight, the fumes were too bad.

"Open channel D please...Illya? Can I stay on your couch tonight?"

"What's in it for me?"

"The pleasure of saying I told you so. I have paint in my hair."

Silence. Then - " I will be waiting."

* * *

 **Just Routine**

It always happened late at night. A few Section IIs would gather - more than two, less than six - and they would go through the empty office and remove all the flourishes of personality. Photographs, house plants, souveniers brought back from exotic places and little pieces of home brought here to ward off the night. They would work together silently, efficiently, and they would pack their dead away in cardboard boxes.

Then facilities staff would move in with paint and industrial cleaner to make the hallowed space pristine. To wipe away those other touches - the dent where a fist might have met a wall after too many bad missions, the stain where coffee might have been spilled in the demonstration of a move better left for the gym. They would stand and watch, a silent audience, and if a bottle of whisky might be passed around, who would speak against them?

And then the door would be locked and the room forgotten, a blind spot in everyone's vision until new agents moved in, too often young and too fleetingly alive. They never ask who had the room before and they are never told.

They are all deep in dead men's desk drawers.


	39. The Seafood Diet Affair

**A/N: Written for the picfic challenge on Section VII. Don't read while eating seafood.**

* * *

It started with a woman opening a can of lobster bisque and almost choking on a broken tracking chip. A tracking chip which had been previously to be found in the upper right molar of Simon Bailey, an UNCLE agent who had been missing for three weeks.

"Moderately disgusting," Napoleon declared. "I guess she's just lucky not to have found the rest of the tooth."

"Unless she had already swallowed it," Illya suggested darkly, and Napoleon pulled a face at the thought.

Simon had gone missing while investigating a THRUSH research lab. The information he'd provided had enabled them to shut the lab down, but by the time more agents had arrived, Simon had already been gone. Dead, everyone thought, but there had been no sign of a body. And now this, their only lead, and the lobster from the soup had apparently come from a lobster hatchery barely ten miles from the lab.

Obviously they had to check it out anyway, but there was still the _chance_ Simon was alive. If this place was an interrogation centre...well, it wasn't hard to imagine a tooth getting dislodged and somehow ending up where it shouldn't. It wasn't impossible.

The hatchery seemed to consist of several sprawling metal sheds, all joined together around a low warehouse. A sign telling all visitors to wait outside creaked in the breeze. There was a dock out back, two dilapidated fishing boats moored at it. A heavy smell of seaweed and brine hung in the air.

"Not the most likely THRUSH base I've ever seen," he murmured.

"That _is_ supposed to be the point of a cover," Illya replied. "But you are right. For something this far out of the way I would expect to see more signs of activity."

Yeah. He nodded, wondering if perhaps this was all coincidence after all. Perhaps the chip had got into the soup by some other means.

"Wait," Illya hissed, pulling him back and a second later he heard it too, the sound of a vehicle rumbling along the dirt road towards them. They vanished back into the undergrowth, taking cover as a delivery van rolled into view and up to the entrance. Two men jumped out and threw the doors open and a second later the door on the warehouse slid up and a small, spindly, awkward-looking man stepped out.

"You're late," he said crossly to the driver.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "Where d'ya want 'em? On the boat?"

"No, of course not, it's far too late," Spindly said. "Take them inside...how many are there today?"

"Three," the driver said, and, as Napoleon watched, incredulous, they started pulling body bags out of the back of the van. Ah, hell. Not an interrogation centre then - a corpse disposal centre.

"They must load them on the boats and dump them out at sea when it's dark," he whispered.

"Perhaps..." Illya said slowly. "Those boats do not look as though they have moved in some time."

Good point. He frowned. "More boats?" he hazarded. "Perhaps they go out during the day and Spindly there is simply minding the store."

"Mmm. Perhaps." Illya sounded doubtful and truthfully so was he.

They watched as the thrushies carried the body bags inside and Napoleon had to force himself to lie still and not interfere. Whoever those had been, they were entirely beyond help now. A direct confrontation won them nothing – they had no idea where the bodies had come from. Their car was parked a couple of miles away as they'd decided on the stealth approach but they still needed to investigate.

Once the three were inside for a moment, he nodded to Illya and kept careful watch as his partner sprinted silently over to the van. He'd _just_ reached it when Napoleon saw the shadow approaching the doorway, so he gave the signal – the bird call which _he_ swore sounded like a majestic eagle, and Illya insisted sounded like a drunk penguin – and watched, relieved, as Illya leapt up on top of the van and lay flat and out of sight.

"So we're done?" Spindly demanded sharply. "Good, good. Give Harry my regards. And don't let the door hit you on your way out. Now leave me alone. I've got a lot of work to do." He stomped back inside, leaving the others to get in the van, and the moment they did Illya hopped across over to the building roof and safety.

Good. But he waited until the van had driven off before approaching. "Did you manage to plant the tracker in between climbing around like a monkey?" he asked enquiringly.

Unsurprisingly, he was answered with a scowl. "Of course. Wherever they go, we can follow."

And so they should be able to find out where the dead people were coming from. Now to investigate where they were going.

Illya dropped down from the roof lightly and they took up position on either side of the door, guns in hand. At his nod, Illya dropped down and forced the door open, and Napoleon quickly ducked inside.

He found himself standing on a metal catwalk surrounding a large room covered with large tanks of water. Two of the body bags were stacked awkwardly by the doorway, and the third...looking round, he spotted Spindly at the other side of the walkway, tipping the body down into one of the tanks with an almighty splash.

What? He looked down into the tank below him and through the murky water he could see movement. Dark, spiny lobsters scuttling over the floor, their tendrils waving, their thin legs scratching across the metal floor, their claws clacking together.

He put the body in the water. He put the body in the water with the lobsters. The tracker chip from Simon's tooth was in the soup.

Oh, God. He felt sick. Behind him, he heard Illya swearing under his breath.

"Don't move," he said levelly, aiming his gun.

"Oh ho!" Spindly turned round slowly, gazing at them with apparent interest. "UNCLE agents, eh? Come to stop my work?"

"Most assuredly," Illya said dryly.

"You just don't understand what I'm trying to do here," he said, and it was like he'd been waiting for someone to talk to.

"You're feeding people to your lobsters," he said, still staring fixedly at the man. "And then you're feeding them to people."

"Well, yes," Spindly said with what was almost an exasperated sigh. "No one understands. THRUSH wants me to dump these bodies at sea – such a waste! All that energy, lost to the wild. In so many places around the world our ancestors understood it. Consuming the flesh of your fallen enemies makes you _stronger._ I'm improving the human race, and they don't even know it! And the taste! Oh, the taste is sublime... In fact I send my finest lobsters to all the heads of THRUSH North America every month. They always say that no other taste compares."

"I would be willing to bet they do not know what they are eating," Illya said, and Napoleon nodded. Yeah. He doubted it. Say what you wanted about THRUSH depravity, cannibalism was a new one.

"Of course you do not understand," Spindly said glumly, and he reached towards his pocket.

They shot him at the same moment. Sleep darts. They would be able to interrogate him later...try and find out just what the hell he was doing – and just where it was that he'd been sending those lobsters. Damn. He shuddered, still feeling green around the gills.

Illya poked the unconscious Spindly contemplatively with his foot, and then knelt down and reached towards the tank. "Help me, will you?" he said, looking back at Napoleon.

"Of course," he said, and they reached down and hauled the body out of the water, dragging it up onto the catwalk. Crabs fell off it from where they had already been swarming across it.

He looked at the man's face. No one he knew, thank god. There was a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead.

"At least we will be able to identify him," Illya said.

True. They both stood, gazing deeper into the warehouse, wondering just how many others might be lurking beneath the water. How long had this been going on? "I suppose Simon is long gone," he said reluctantly. Dead and eaten. It was hard to believe. Impossible to stomach.

"In the wild, crabs can strip a body completely to the bone within three weeks," Illya said remotely. "In these conditions, in such concentrations and with no other food source, it might take even less time."

"Right." He swallowed hard. "I took Brenda to Gamba Fish last night."

"Ah." Illya gazed at him sympathetically. "You had the lobster?"

"We both did. With parsley and lemon." He pressed his hand against his mouth at the memory. "It was delicious."

"You know, it probably did not come from here," Illya offered.

"Thanks," he said ironically. "You're such a comfort." He sighed. "So how long do you reckon he'll last when THRUSH find out what he's been feeding them?"

"Not long."

No. He gazed down into the water at the scuttling, insect like creatures below, each one filled with human flesh. "I'm never eating seafood again."


	40. Shades of Blue

**A/N: Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII**

* * *

"Alright. So. What have we learned today, tovarisch?"

"That _you_ do not look at women's faces. Oh, no. Wait. I was aware of that already."

"Mmm. I was thinking more something along the lines of 'When the police are trying to talk to you, you, be polite. Don't snarl at them'."

"It was hardly a snarl. I merely suggested, in what I will admit was a forthright manner, that they should move out of my way as I was currently pursuing - "

" - the wrong woman."

"Something I was unaware of at the time, and the blame for which can be laid solely at your shoes."

"Feet."

"Which are in your shoes."

"You know, I really don't see why you're blaming me for you inadequa - "

" - _excuse me_?" - "

" - Inadequacies. I gave you a perfectly fine description."

"A brunette. In a blue dress. There were several women who matched that description in the vicinity."

"A powder blue dress, I think you'll find is what I actually said. And if you hadn't spent so much time arguing - "

" - It was an entirely inadequate description. There are many different powders that could be blue. For example, oxidised zinc, in powder form, would be a sort of blue, as would cobalt. They both look very different. And, come to think of it, dried paint could become powder, and that could come in any shade of blue you like."

"Yes. But if I'd meant oxidised zinc or cobalt or 'any shade of blue you like' that's what I would have said. I meant powder blue."

"But you did not state what sort of powder."

"The sort of powder that's coloured powder blue!"

"A statement which is so reductionist as to be absurd."

"Illya. Powder blue is a particular shade of blue."

"I appreciate that, however my point is that as I am clearly unaware of just what shade that might be, your description was useless. Perhaps if you had been able to describe the woman's face, instead of having been so obviously fixated on her powder blue swathed figure, we might not now be in our current predicament."

"I'm sure you would have managed to uncover a whole different predicament for us to enjoy."

"What would you wish me to do? Memorise the entire colour chart with their idiosyncratic names?"

"It would be a start. There are more colours than black, you know."

"Black is not a colour. And what do I look like to you? A fashion designer?"

"Hardly. But you know what? Go ahead and memorise that colour chart. Your evaluation is coming up at the end of the month, and as your direct supervisor - "

" - you would not."

"Just try me, pal."

"..."

"And to think, all this could have been avoided, if you had only said she was wearing a sky blue dress."

"But she wasn't. It was powder blue."

"Did you know, that the ancient Greeks had no word for blue? They distinguished colours by whether they were light or dark. Their word for dark blue could also mean dark green or brown. So at times it would seem as though someone's hair was being described as blue, or the sky as brown. It makes you wonder whether they did, in fact, see the colours in the same way as we? Language can do much to shape our way of perceiving the world around us."

"..."

"...so...are you saying you didn't see the same colour dress as me?"

"No. It is simply interesting."

"You know, every now and then, I start to wonder whether your sole purpose is to torment me."

"Here comes the police officer again. Now, what colour would you say his uniform is?"


	41. 21

**A/N: Written for the picture challenge on Section VII. And generally somewhat Christmassy. Around the edges.**

* * *

"And here we are," Somerville said, gesturing expansively up towards the painted jockey statues, staring down at them. "The world famous Club 21, my favourite place in New York. You know, I first came here in '29, when it was Jack and Charlie's 21, and we all had to speak in code, thanks to your ridiculous prohibition laws. Ah, good times. Good times. Thank you, gentlemen, for letting me come out here this morning. I hope you don't get in too much trouble, what?"

Yes, so did Napoleon. The trouble with babysitting dignitaries was always treading that line between protection and respect. Illya had said they should have just darted Somerville and kept him bundled up in a closet until the peace talks, but Somerville had seemed so sincere in his wish to come here this morning, and since the staff were opening up the bar an hour early just for him, they had reluctantly agreed. Well, he had agreed; Illya had grumbled.

His brow was still creased now as he gazed up mistrustfully at the jockeys.

"Presented by grateful patrons," Napoleon explained. He didn't get to 21 as often as he might like, but he certainly knew it well.

Illya looked at him. "And what is wrong with simply tipping?"

"The colours the jockeys are wearing represent the racing colours of the stables the donors owned," Somerville elaborated further, and really, Napoleon already knew this and he strongly suspected that Illya didn't care. "There are thirty five in total," he continued, as they walked through the door. "Thirty three on the outside, and two inside."

Napoleon was hardly listening. There was something different here. Something wrong.

"Three," Illya said succinctly.

"What?"

"There are three inside," Illya said, gazing straight at the jockey statue that looked just a little newer than the others, just a little off-scale.

Well, then. Seemed THRUSH knew where Somerville was after all.

It was a safe assumption that there was going to be a welcoming committee for them outside. He drew his gun and placed his hand on the diplomat's shoulder. "I'm going to need to ask you to come with me, sir," he said. "Quickly."

To his credit, the man barely blinked. "Of course," he said. "Whatever you think best, young man."

He ushered him towards the bar, glancing back at Illya just for a second, and his partner nodded briefly before turning his attention to the fake jockey.

If it was a bomb, Illya would defuse it. He had faith. All the same, he spoke urgently to the barman as they hurried deeper inside the building. "Where's the door to the wine cellar?"

The barman's eyes widened at the sight of the gun. "Mr Somerville...Mr Solo...what...?"

"The wine cellar," he repeated quickly.

"Oh, of course. Follow me, please."

Now there was service for you. And the wine cellar should, with any luck, keep them safe from any unwanted explosions. However, as it turned out, they'd barely got down the stairs before Illya appeared behind him. "Done," he announced.

Really? Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Not a bomb?"

"Come and see," Illya said, a note of disquiet in his voice.

The jockey figure had been prised off the wall and lay open on a nearby table. The bomb was clearly visible and clearly disarmed. And Napoleon might generally leave most of the demolition work to his enthusiastic partner, but that didn't mean he couldn't see it was also almost unbelievably simple.

"Hmm," he said, his brow furrowed.

"It's almost an insult," Illya agreed.

And it hadn't exactly been well disguised either. "A decoy?" he suggested.

Illya nodded. "It is the only thing that makes sense."

"Go and check for that welcoming committee," he instructed. "I'll look around here."

He started searching the room, keeping half an eye on Somerville, standing at the bar, talking to the barman.

" _Mr Somerville, I really don't know if this is the right time, but even though you're not a regular anymore, when the boss heard you were flying in for a visit, he insisted I get you one of these."_

" _A Christmas scarf! Oh, my. The design is beautiful this year, isn't it? Let me just...ow!"_

Napoleon looked round sharply to see Somerville holding the scarf and gazing ruefully at his finger. "What happened?"

"Feels like someone left a pin in the bloody scarf. I've gone and pricked my finger, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm sorry, sir," the barman said anxiously ."That's never happened before."

"Don'...don't worry about it, dear chap," Somerville yawned groggily.

Napoleon grabbed the scarf and examined it closely. There was the pin alright. Hollow, and ready to deliver whatever toxin was required. Carefully, he took a sniff.

"I cannot see any THRUSH men outside, but there do appear to be a number of members of the press," Illya announced from the doorway. "They must have heard word of...ah." He caught sight of Somerville, leaning against the bar while Napoleon held him up by his arm. "I will call an ambulance."

"Don't bother," Napoleon said, holding out the scarf to him.

Delicately, Illya sniffed the pin. "Ethanol."

Napoleon nodded. "You said there was press outside?" There was no way that one of the key negotiators at the peace talks being carried drunk out of a famous bar the morning before the talks were due to commence wouldn't attract notice. The peace talks would fail and THRUSH would get to continue in the chaos they so enjoyed.

"Clever," Illya conceded grudgingly.

"Very." But they'd find a way to stop it nonetheless. He looked at the barman, now staring at the clearly drunk Somerville with an expression of bewilderment too real for Napoleon to consider him a likely conspirator. "Did that scarf come with the others?"

"N-no," he stuttered. "It was sent round special, as it was early. With a note saying it was for Mr Somerville. Is...is he alright?"

They exchanged a look and Illya leaned forwards. "How strong is your coffee?"

* * *

Not strong enough, was the answer, after a pot and a half. All it had done was make Somerville talkative. "...nuh-nothing is a same as it was back...back in the good ol' days," he sighed nostalgically, propped up on the bar between the two of them. "The world's gone mad, and not 'n the way it use to be. Everyone's so _serious._ Takes 'emselves seriously. Y'know, I used to be 'n aide to Churchill. Winston Churchill, I mean. An' he used to hold discussions while he was in the bath. Said it helped him think. I 'member once, he met Roosevelt stark bollock naked. Wasn't bothered either, just said 'Mr President, as you can see, I have nothing to hide from you.' Why can't things be like that anymore?"

"In your position, Churchill would have had three more brandies, walked out in front of the press and made a speech," Illya said grimly, trying unsuccessfully to push another cup of coffee to Somerville's mouth.

"With or without his clothes?" Napoleon murmured.

Somerville twisted around to look at him. "Hey, Solo...Solo...y'know, I think I knew your father."

"Quite probably," he said neutrally.

"Shame about him," he added vacantly, before focusing back on Illya. "I didn't know your father, did I?"

"I doubt it," Illya said irritably. "He worked in a factory producing agricultural equipment. Does that sound familiar?"

"No..." Somerville said slowly. He gazed at them blearily for a long moment. "'s not just the seriousnesss y'know. It's all the secrets. We all say we want peace, but we're busy preparin' for war." He started to push Illya and the coffee away, and wound up with his hand planted firmly against Illya's cheek. "The Americans are moving more missiles into Germany. Y'know, 's a good thing the Russkies don't know about that."

"Very," Illya agreed, removing the man's hand from his face with some degree of difficulty. He turned to look at Napoleon. "This is not working."

"Agreed," he said. And it was getting desperate. Staying too long in the bar could provide the exact same rumours they were trying to avoid. "Can't you think of anything else?"

"You are the one with the dissolute lifestyle," Illya retorted.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're the one from the country where drinking is the national sport."

"Actually, our national sport is bandy, but I take your point." He sighed and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment before turning to look at the bartender. "Very well. I will need another pot of coffee, a cup of ice, mustard powder, sugar, some tomato juice, three chillis – Scotch bonnets for preference – some ground coriander and...how fresh are your eggs?"

The bartender gaped. Napoleon knew the feeling.

* * *

Ten minutes later and they stood on either side of the bathroom door, listening to the unpleasant sound of Somerville vomiting up his toenails.

"You know," Napoleon said conversationally. "If he dies, you're going to need to take a paycut."

"If he dies, I am blaming THRUSH," Illya said firmly.

"Where did you learn to make that...concoction...anyway?" he asked.

Illya shrugged. "Here and there. I have added to the recipe over the years."

"And it's effective?" he pressed.

There was a slight but noticeable hesitation. "I have never drank it myself..."

Terrific. But he was saved from having to answer by the sight of Somerville coming out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth and looking...if not healthy, then at least upright. "I...gentlemen, I'm sorry," he said. "I really don't know what came over me."

"A THRUSH plot, sir," Napoleon said. "Think nothing of it. But we need to get you back to your hotel, and you're going to need to walk past some journalists. Do you feel up to it?"

Somerville nodded, still a sickly green colour.

"I doubt the effect will last for long," Illya said quietly.

Right. They had best move fast. Moving as one they ushered Somerville towards the door, and Napoleon only looked back at the barman long enough to ask "Can I make a reservation for Saturday? My usual table."

Eventually, he would earn himself a scarf.


	42. Telling Tales

**A/N: And here is fic! New year, new fic!**

* * *

"Jim! I didn't know you were working here now."

"Chuck! It's good to see you. Yeah, I just got transferred two days ago."

Smiling broadly, the two THRUSH guards stopped in the middle of their patrol of the corridors and moved into a shadowy alcove to continue their conversation. After all, gossiping on guard duty was absolutely forbidden.

"So what's new with you?" Jim asked. "The last time I saw you must have been just after Detroit. You went on to work for Kaza, right? I heard a rumour that you'd been terminated after the disaster with that kid Miki."

"No, thank God," Chuck said, a hushed tone to his voice. "Though it was a close run thing. The big boss wasn't happy that Kuryakin escaped on my watch."

Jim snorted. "If the bosses terminated everyone who had Kuryakin escape on him, there'd be no one left to guard the prisoners."

"Yeah, like that's ever going to happen. Can you imagine someone like Gervais patrolling the corridors? First blister he got and that would be that. I'm telling you, this organisation would fall apart without us little guys keeping it going. But do we get appreciated?" His voice took on a tone of injury.

Jim looked around nervously. "Alright, alright, but keep your voice down, can't you? I haven't even figured out if the base is bugged yet."

Chuck looked suitably chastised. "Sorry, pal. Anyway, it wasn't exactly because Kuryakin escaped…it was the part where he escaped using only a mouse trap that really got their goat."

"A mouse trap?" Jim repeated blankly.

"Those things really smart," he said with a scowl. "My fingers were bruised for weeks afterwards. Not that that would matter to that vindictive bastard. I swear he did it on purpose. He was mocking me."

"Uh huh. You're lucky he didn't just kill you." At Chuck's look, Jim wisely decided to change the subject. "So, have you heard from Benny lately?"

"Dead," Chuck said shortly. "He was working with Obermann and they caught Slate, and got a bit too enthusiastic about interrogating him. So when Dancer got there, surprise surprise, Obermann takes off, leaving poor Benny to take the blame. And the bullet."

"Benny always was a fool," Jim said, shaking his head. "We should raise a glass to his memory though. And Obermann's just a psycho. He gives this organisation a bad name."

"Too right," Chuck agreed. "But watch yourself, he's working here."

"Really?" Jim groaned.

"Oh, yeah, whatever did happen with that?"

"I was all set to go to Austria. I was going to be heading up my own section and everything. Then Solo goes and blows up the base, and suddenly everyone involved in the project has a massive black mark against their name. Even me, and I hadn't even started working yet!"

Chuck considered. "Kind of sounds like you dodged a bullet there, really. Or a bomb."

"I guess," Jim said doubtfully. "I heard he pushed Dr Dabrees down an elevator shaft too."

"I heard that too," Chuck sniggered. "Heh. I guess we finally found a woman that wasn't his type."

They both heard footsteps clattering down the hallway towards them. Cautiously, Chuck poked his head out.

"Oh, there you are," Fred exclaimed, catching sight of him. "You're missing all the fun. Obermann's managed to capture Kuryakin. He's got him down in the basement now – it's not gonna be pretty."

"Uh huh," Chuck said slowly. "I've got to finish up my patrol. I'll come see when I'm off duty."

"Okay, you're choice," Fred said. "I'm going to get back. I've always wanted to learn how to swear in Russian."

Chuck looked back at Jim, sharing a look of silent resignation.

"Speak of an UNCLE agent and they appear," Jim said grimly.

"Yep." Chuck sighed. "You know, I was thinking of going to go take a smoke break. On the roof, next to the fire escape."

"The one that's right next to the garage?" Jim checked.

"That's the one," he nodded. "Care to join me? As fast as possible?"

"Let's go."

They hurried through the base, taking care to look as purposeful as possible. Jim grabbed a clipboard and Chuck a stack of papers to brandish at anyone who might look like they were going to question where they were going.

It was already dark when they got onto the deserted roof. They had a clear view down to the garage and the pre-fueled Jeeps waiting just below them. Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright. So, I'm thinking this smoke break should be a few hours at the very - "

They froze as they heard someone dropping down softly from the ledge. Slowly – agonisingly slowly – they turned to see Napoleon Solo standing there, gun pointing directly at them.

"Oh, _shit_ ," Chuck said with feeling.

Jim swallowed hard. "Um. Look. We're just...um. Kuryakin is being held in the basement. If you hurry, you'll probably be able to get there before Obermann starts on him."

"Thank you," Solo said ironically.

"You're welcome," Jim said automatically. "Erm, if it's not too much trouble, could you give us half an hour to get away before your partner blows the place up?"

Solo smiled darkly. "I'd leave now if I were you."

Yes. That sounded like a good plan. He grabbed Chuck's arm and together they sprinted towards the fire escape, the garage, and escape.


	43. The Ducks of St James' Park

**Written for the short affair challenge on Section VII, the prompts were duck and silver**

* * *

"Are you sure Borrs doesn't know you don't work for the KGB anymore?" Napoleon asked into his communicator from his position concealed behind a clump of nearby trees.

"Five," Illya said succinctly.

Napoleon blinked. "Five?" he repeated. He could see his partner standing by the lake, already surrounded by a swarm of expectant ducks.

"That is now five times you have asked me that," Illya explained. He had his back to Napoleon, so he couldn't see his face, but Napoleon could still picture the look of irritation on his partner's face.

He grinned. "Just checking you're paying attention, tovarisch." Truthfully, even though this had been as much his plan as Illya's, now it came to it he wasn't completely happy. There were too many things that could go wrong. Borrs knew Illya from back when he had been a KGB agent stationed in England, and if he realised that this was a trick and Illya now actually worked for UNCLE – or if the KGB got wind that Illya was impersonating one of their agents – then the consequences could get very serious very quickly.

He saw a stooped-over man in a long raincoat approaching, straggly silver hair visible beneath his trilby. That certainly matched the description Illy had given him. Good. They needed to secure this information before THRUSH did. No one had been able to figure out quite how a list of undercover THRUSH agents had made its way into the hands of a mid-level crook like Borrs, but it had. And UNCLE wanted to get it just as much as THRUSH wanted to get it back.

Unfortunately there was no way Borrs was going to talk to UNCLE directly – they were too obviously law enforcement for that. But he was a known London contact of the KGB and apparently the old dead drop Illya had used was still effective. Napoleon had politely affected not to see the location of see the location of the dead drop. The chances were Illya wasn't even still supposed to know that.

Borrs approached the edge of the lake, standing a few feet from Illya and both men drew out paper bags and started tossing scraps of bread towards the ducks, who frantically crowded closer, with a chorus of quacks.

Illya had left his communicator open so Napoleon could hear the conversation. "So," Borrs grunted. "You're back."

"Yes," Illya said shortly, and even in that one word his accent was obviously thicker.

That provoked another grunt. "Good. Your replacement was an idiot. So was the fool they replaced _him_ with. Not surprised he got himself dead."

"I did not come here to discuss internal security matters," Illya said coldly. "You have information we require."

"Mmph." Borrs paused for a moment, and the quacking grew to cacophonous levels as the ducks fought over a particularly large piece of bread. "I do have the information," he said slowly, sliding a brown envelope out of his coat pocket. "There's been a lot of interest in this, you know. A lot of strangers. And you show up after all this time."

"I've got the money," Illya said, gesturing at the briefcase at his feet. "What else do you want?"

A sudden movement at the corner of his eye drew Napoleon's attention away from the exchange. Hmmm. There was someone sneaking around the building on the island in the middle of the loch. Napoleon didn't recognise him, but since he was holding a THRUSH rifle, he didn't really need to. He started picking his way around the treeline, and by the time the THRUSH agent raised his rifle, he was in position to aim and fire.

Simultaneously at the sound of the gunshot; the THRUSH agent fell; Borrs whirled round to stare wildly towards Napoleon; and the ducks erupted into furious, quacking flight.

"You set me up!" Borrs shouted loudly, and he threw the brown envelope towards the water, and as Illya dived to save it, took off running.

Napoleon let him go, instead jogging towards the lake where Illya was lying submerged among the weeds, only his hand, triumphantly clutching the envelope, still held aloft.

"Are you alright?" Napoleon asked curiously, as Illya sat up, spitting out a mouthful of dirty water. The ducks, still ruffled and indignant, settled in around him.

"We have the list and we have the money," Illya said with as much dignity as he could muster. "I should call that a success, wouldn't you?"

"Mmmm." Napoleon surveyed his soggy partner solemnly. "If you think I'm getting into a taxi with you in that state, pal, you're absolutely quackers."

"I hate you," Illya told him with feeling.

Napoleon grinned.


	44. Something Different

**A/N: Written for the short affair on Section VII. The prompts were cascade and blue, and I may have read too many comics in my life.**

* * *

Blue sparks danced across the metal grille on the floor towards them, and Napoleon and Illya jumped back smartly out of the way. There was only one way in or out so at least they had Gwinnett trapped...if trapping a mad man in an electrified suit could be counted as good in any way...

"Haha, THRUSH cannot stop me, UNCLE cannot stop me, I am invincible!"

Napoleon and Illya exchanged a look of resignation. THRUSH hadn't really _tried_ to stop him. They had simply sent a rather exasperated message to UNCLE to the effect that one of their low level minions had gone rogue, stolen a prototype from a failed project and started robbing banks while proclaiming his superiority, and wasn't that the sort of thing UNCLE was supposed to put a stop to?

As much as he disliked the thought of doing THRUSH a favour, it kind of was. So far no one had been hurt in the course of this deluded Lex Luthor impersonation, but it was only a matter of time.

"If you are invincible, why are you wasting time robbing banks?" Illya called out.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "What do you want him to do, try to take over the world?"

"All the reports suggest he is extremely vain and insecure," Illya muttered back. "I am hoping we can keep him talking until he becomes distracted and makes a mistake."

Well, that made a certain amount of sense. Apparently Gwinnett's suit was too thick for sleep darts to penetrate, so they needed a different plan - one that didn't involve walking straight up to be electrocuted.

"I am showing the world that nothing is safe from me!" Gwinnett yelled back. "All my life everyone has looked down on me. And now they can't even defend their property from me!"

"All property is theft," Illya argued, and if nothing else, spouting Marxist doctrine at the would-be supervillain was bound to be confusing.

Hmm. Gwinnett's vanity meant that he wanted to be taken seriously. He wanted to be the only thing in the room that mattered. Perhaps _that_ was what they should be using - or misusing. "If you really believed that, then why are you so annoyed at me taking that dougnut from you desk?" he asked loudly.

Illya looked over at him quickly, then nodded. "All theft is _also_ theft," he said severely.

Napoleon grinned.

"Hey!" Gwinnett said sharply, sounding a little closer than he had before. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course, of course," Napoleon shouted soothingly. "Evil plot, can't be foiled, invincible...We've got it. Listen do you think that we're going to be done here by six? We both have a date tonight."

"I do not recall telling you my plans for this evening?" Illya said, as they moved into position.

"Ah, well, you see, Carlie Lyons agreed to go out with me as long as I had a friend for _her_ friend," he explained.

"No," Illya said shortly. "I do not need to be set up, and I do not like blind dates. As well you know. Find _another_ friend for her friend."

"Well..." Napoleon said slowly. "The thing about that is..."

"Her 'friend' asked for me specifically," Illya guessed, narrowing his eyes. "Which means I must know her. Who?"

"Grace Downes," he admitted.

The glare Illya turned on him was as shocking as Gwinnett's electric suit. "The one who says my accent is 'adorable' and keeps asking if I need help getting around the city? No. Not a chance, my friend. I would say you should be ashamed of yourself for trying to trick me, but I doubt you have it in you."

"Hey, that's not fair," he began, but that was the point it became clear that they'd finally managed to frustrate Gwinnett into action.

" _You will regret ignoring meeeeeee..."_ he shouted as he charged round the corner, his battle cry descending into an incoherent wail as they blasted him full force with a fire hose.

Electricity crackled through the water in a cascade of sparks and tiny flames, but they had come prepared, safely dressed in thick, insulated rubber boots and gloves.

"Is he alive?" Napoleon asked after a moment, as the smoke cleared, revealing Gwinnett lying on his back and staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

Illya prodded him with the toe of his boot. "Yes," he said after a second. "The suit is very well insulated. I would say he is merely dazed. And very, very surprised."

Good. Napoleon clicked his tongue, shaking his head sadly. "And to think these days 'invincible' means 'can be easily defeated by galoshes'. Good thinking, tovarisch. This was, after all, your plan."  
"Hmmm." Illya looked at him. "I do not care how you flatter me, I am still not going on a date with Miss Downes."

He sighed. "Some people can be so selfish," he told Gwinnett gloomily.

The would-be-villain groaned.


	45. The First Day of Winter

**A/N: Written for the picfic challenge on Section VII. And Pavel is a character from way back in chapter 5. If anyone remembers, I'm impressed. :)**

* * *

The snow had began falling again. Already the streets were covered in a thick blanket of white, which would be unlikely to clear before spring. It was beautiful right now, before it became muddy and trampled, and covered with soot as people turned to burning anything they could get their hands on in an attempt to stave off the cold.

Illya breathed in the cold air and tried to capture the scene in his head; the warm glow of the electric street lamps reflected across the snowy park, the icicles hanging from the gates of the metro station, the faces of the people passing by, bundled up in thick coats and scarves as they hurried along the wide path, the sound of balalaika music, the smell of roasted fat coming from the shashlyk stall...this would all be part of his enduring memories of home.

"I imagine England will be very different from this," Pavel remarked, looking at him curiously.

"They have snow," Illya replied. "Not generally as deep as this, and it does not last as long, but I saw a few bad snow storms while I was there before." He smiled slightly. "Mostly, there is rain and there is fog, which at least gives the English something to talk about."

"But you liked it there, didn't you?" Pavel asked, sounding almost anxious.

Illya's hesitation was – hopefully – barely perceptible as he looked around, cautiously picking out the two KGB men and their GRU counterparts. He had already checked himself for bugs on the train, and they were far enough away that their conversation should not be overheard. The higher-ups in both KGB and the party might want the prestige of having a Soviet agent in UNCLE, but the actual agent – Illya – was inevitably under intense scrutiny. Any sign that he was taking the slightest pleasure in his assignment could be interpreted as disloyalty. It was...irritating. He just wanted to enjoy these, his last few days in his homeland for who-knew-how-long.

"England is alright," he said therefore. "Provided one does not mind the food, or the drink, or the arrogance of their upper classes." He remembered with fondness the smoky jazz clubs he had used to frequent, on those rare evenings when he had free time, and the times he had spent in the pub listening to other students as they loudly and vociferously criticized their government and realising, with befuddled amusement, that they felt no fear in doing so. He was loyal to his country beyond all question, but it was a different world.

Pavel elbowed him lightly. "No good vodka?"

Illya gave him a crooked smile in return. "Not like the stuff Taras Fedorovich used to make on the roof of the physics building back in Tibilisi," he said solemnly.

"Oh, I'd forgotten that," Pavel laughed. "One sniff was enough to make grown men break down and weep. Taras Ferodovich, what a character. I wonder whatever happened to him?"

"Do not ask," Illya said after a second's pause, remembering their old classmate's arrest and subsequent exile to Siberia.

""Ah," Pavel said, a shadow crossing his face. "Of course." He carefully changed the subject, the way they had all learned to. "So this job they're sending you to in England. What is it again?"

"Scientific and technical attaché to the Soviet embassy in London," he said. His cover within the USSR.

"Yes." Pavel smiled again. "They do give you some interesting titles, don't they?"

He spoke knowingly but Illya refused to be drawn. "How is your work at the university going?"

"Very good," Pavel said, nodding intently. "My team has been working on a new scattering experimental process, and the early results look promising. I think we are nearing a breakthrough."

"I look forward to reading the paper," Illya said, only afterwards realising with a pang that there was a good chance he wouldn't be able to. He had already been told in no uncertain terms that he should abstain from any contact with home so as to avoid any kind of suspicion falling on him. ' _These Westerners are paranoid,'_ Alyokhin had told him. ' _They see our agents behind every door._ ' In the privacy of his own head, Illya suspected it was more about their continuing ambivalence towards UNCLE. The existence of a Soviet UNCLE agent was a matter for international pride, not domestic consumption.

At Pavel's signal they paused, standing on a bridge overlooking the frozen river. "Do you ever wish you had gone into research like me?" Pavel asked tentatively. "It might not be glamorous, but it's regular hours, and you would be an asset to the university. It's safe as well."

"There is nothing inherently dangerous in being a scientific and technical attaché," he said woodenly.

"Of course not," Pavel snorted. "Just as there was nothing inherently dangerous in you being a junior researcher for the State Committee for Science and Technology. And yet the last time I saw you, your leg was broken in three places and you were recovering from a concussion."

"A motorcycle accident," he said, and it wasn't a complete lie. Just that it hadn't exactly been an accident. He sighed. "We all serve the Soviet Union in our own way," he said. "I go where I am sent and do as I am told."

Pavel looked around, and he might not be able to pick out their watchers as surely as Illya could, but he was intelligent enough to assume they were there. "Are you happy?" he asked in a guarded whisper.

He looked at his friend, with his steady job and his loving wife. "Yes," he admitted. "I enjoy my work."

"Being a scientific advisor to officials and diplomats?" Pavel asked ironically.

"I admit it is not for everyone," he said, deadpan. He rested his gloved hands on the railings of the bridge. There was a row boat trapped in the ice below. It would be useless, come the thaw. "How is Inessa?"

"Good." Pavel brightened noticeably at the mention of his wife. "They are expanding the clinic so she has three more doctors working under her. She's keeping busy. Oh, she's looking forward to seeing you again. She's made solyanka especially, but don't tell her I told you."

"I shall be the soul of discretion," he promised eagerly, suddenly looking forward to dinner even more than usual. The only thing more difficult than obtaining good Russian food in Britain was obtaining good Ukrainian food.

"She worries about you," Pavel added, staring down at the river himself. "All that time overseas, among the capitalist wolves. She is afraid that you are going to be hurt or killed and we will never hear from you again."

Ah. He could not promise that wouldn't happen. He could not even say it was unlikely. And certainly, he knew that he could not promise he would keep in touch. "I will be careful," he offered instead. "As much as I can be."

"I suppose that will have to do," Pavel sighed. "At least I know our country is safer. With you offering scientific advice, I mean."

He smiled and said nothing.

"Come on," Pavel said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's go home, and we will eat and drink and celebrate your last days here in style."

That, at least, he could do.


	46. Interrogation

**A/N: Hello! It's been a while, so I hope someone is reading this and even more I hope they are enjoying it. I have had an awful year, so this is me starting to make an effort to actually write and remembering that hey, I actually used to enjoy this. Oh, and this was written for the short affair challenge on Section VII**

* * *

"We are all at the mercy of technology," the blond g-man with the funny accent remarked to his compatriot.

Lenny didn't think this was a suitable time for philosophy. He had been snatched off the street by these terrifying spooks and held in this windowless, concrete room for hours, accused of being a spy, an enemy agent and even a thrush, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. He hadn't done anything wrong! Except for the robberies, that was, but apart from them he was as innocent as the day was long.

"In this case I think it's more a case of being at the mercy of petty criminals," the other g-man said – the dark-haired one who looked like he had walked out of some fashion plate. He didn't take his eyes off Lenny for a moment.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Lenny insisted sullenly for the hundred and twelfth time. "I saw a load of old copper wiring under the street and I knew it wasn't supposed to be there. The city didn't even know nothing about it, so I figured it wouldn't matter none if I helped myself. Salvage, that's what it is."

"Stealing," the dark-haired man corrected with an affable smile. "That's what it is."

The blond sat down on the edge of the table and gazed down at Lenny. "Stealing with potentially fatal consequences," he added darkly.

Fatal...oh, god. Panic seized his throat and he could feel the tears well up. "I'm sorry," he said breathlessly. "I didn't mean to...don't kill me, please."

"Oh, stop blubbering," the blond said disgustedly. "You are not one of the potential fatalities. Yet." The dark-haired man didn't say anything, or even move, but still the other glanced down at him sharply. "You are not the one who had to spend half the night helping to rewire the exchange. I had _plans,_ Napoleon."

"You told me you were heading home to sleep," the man – Napoleon, apparently – said.

The blond nodded. "I had plans to sleep."

Napoleon looked back at Lenny. "So, after some extensive background checks, we're certain that you're nothing more than an opportunistic thief. But your little theft disrupted our operations throughout the US for several hours, and we take that very seriously."

He swallowed hard. "Look, I don't know who you guys are, but I'm just trying to make a living."

"It also interrupted Mr Kuryakin's sleep," Napoleon went on, as if Lenny had never spoken.

"We take that very seriously as well," Kuryakin said, deadpan.

"Now I'm sure you appreciate that we can't just let you go, knowing that you've found a weak spot in our security, even if it is one that we intend to fix. So you have two choices here. The easy way is that you sign this letter confessing to a number of crimes we know you committed, and we take a trip downstairs to see a friendly doctor, and you wake up tomorrow and find that you can't remember the last forty-eight hours and you're now a guest of the NYPD - "

" - yes," Lenny cut in eagerly. "Yes, I'll take it. I don't want to remember any of this. And I'll sign anything you want."

The blond coughed and turned his head and said something that sounded like "You should give him that loan application, Napoleon."

Whatever he said, the other man ignored it, sliding a piece of paper across the table and Lenny barely bothered reading it before he was signing it. He just wanted to get out of here. He wasn't cut out for any of this madness

"There," he declared. "Done. And now you'll let me out of here, right? Give me to the cops?"

They looked at him for a long moment, faces expressionless. "Well, that's the plan," Napoleon said. "If you would just like to come with us?"

He wouldn't, but he did, and he found himself led into a different windowless room, with a doctor who gave him an injection and told him to look directly at a swirling light. Just before everything faded away he could hear voices behind him.

"Well, that was easy."

"Chyort! Napoleon, I have just thought of something."

"What is it, tovarisch?"

"We should have asked him what he did with the copper before we started to wipe his - "


	47. Compared to What?

**A/N: Written for the song story challenge on Section VII. And thank you so much to everyone who left kind words on the previous chapter. You've really helped encourage me. Up to you whether you think that's a good thing...**

* * *

"Well, this is me," Maria said expectantly, stopping outside a good-sized villa at the top of the hill. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Napoleon."

"You're welcome," he smiled, his hand still entwined in hers. "I only wish we had more time to spend together."

"Well..." She drew the word out, blushing lightly. "You could always come in for a nightcap. If you like."

"I think I would."

She laughed slightly and squeezed his hand as she led him inside.

"Nice place you have here," he remarked. It was. Elegant and stately, as befitted a rising political star, full of shelves weighed down with law and philosophy books as you'd expect from a dedicated activist for democracy and human rights, and with just enough warm colours and personal touches to make it a home.

"Thank you," she said. "Let me just run upstairs and slip into something...more comfortable."

He smiled again and moved to the window, glancing out but keeping out of sight. His caution was nothing more than habit – they'd already dealt with THRUSH's presence in the city – and yet his attention was immediately caught by the unmarked van idling on the other side of the street. Huh. He took a step back, all senses on alert.

"So what do you think?" Maria asked, and he half-turned his head to see her posing on the stairs in a pink silk robe, before his attention was caught by a whistling sound from the van, and something coming hurtling towards the house.

"Get down!" he shouted desperately, throwing himself towards her. He barely had time to register the shock in her eyes before the explosion tore through the house. Everything shook. He was thrown down beside the stairs, not enough time to brace for impact, the pain roaring through him. For a moment, barely clinging to consciousness, he lay there, plaster and debris falling around him, feeling the flames licking along the wall.

The last thing he saw before the darkness closed in around him was Maria lying limp across the balustrade above him, her neck twisted unnaturally, her eyes open and empty.

* * *

He woke in hospital some time later. The pain had faded to a dull ache. The physical pain, anyway.

"Napoleon."

He turned his head, not at all surprised to see Illya sitting at his bedside. "I'm awake," he rasped. Illya passed him a glass of water, holding it steady as he drank. "Thanks."

"You were brought in a few hours ago," Illya told him. "You have a couple of fractured ribs and a minor concussion. The doctors say you were very lucky."

"Maria?" he asked, and he already knew the answer, he already knew, and still he had to ask the question.

Silently, Illya shook his head.

Damn. He squeezed his eyes shut tight.

"I am sorry," Illya said.

Yes. Sorry. So was he. "We caught Cortez. Was there someone else? Someone we missed? Who - "

" - It was not THRUSH," Illya interrupted him. "And you were not the target. Miss Esteban's work made her a lot of enemies. It seems some of them caught up to her."

Oh. Not THRUSH. That didn't make it any better. It almost made it worst. "I'd like to be alone," he told Illya, his voice hollow. "Could you give me a few minutes?"

"Of course. I should update Mr Waverly." He stood. "Napoleon, I am sorry."

"I know." He flashed his partner a quick smile, hoping it didn't look as brittle as it felt.

He waited until he was sure Illya was gone, staring up at the ceiling, dry-eyed and empty. Then he sat up, swung his legs over then edge of the bed, retrieved some clothes from the locker and, with a grunt of pain, let himself out by the window.

* * *

Illya caught up with him three whiskies later in the bar down the street. He didn't say anything or even look up as his partner slid into the seat opposite. Luckily it was still early enough that the place was empty.

"I gave you a few minutes," Illya remarked after a moment of silence.

"Mmm. Thanks," Napoleon said, staring down into his glass.

"Do I need to remind you of the perils of mixing alcohol and head injuries?"

He breathed out slowly. "I've got you to carry me home if need be, right?"

"Do not think that I would not," Illya threatened.

Finally, he lifted his head, looking Illya straight in the eyes. "Do you ever wonder what it's all for, tovarisch?" he asked.

Illya sighed. "Don't we all?"

"She was working against voter suppression, running on a platform of anti-corruption. She wanted universal education, clean water for everyone...what part of that did someone decide she deserved to die for, huh? We're out there fighting our own war to stop THRUSH taking over the world, and even when we win, there's still someone willing to kill good people because they want to hold onto their own little empires." He paused, breathing heavily. "Are we even making a difference?"

"We are making the world safer," Illya reminded him.

He laughed shortly. "Compared to what?" he demanded. "THRUSH are just one threat. You know as well as I do how close the world has come to nuclear war over the last few years. And how many good people like Maria are murdered every day? What good are we?"

Illya hesitated for a long moment. "We cannot hope to save everyone," he said at last. "But you and I have saved a good portion of the world more than once. That is worth something, is it not?"

Of course it was. He sighed, weary beyond belief. "I liked her."

"You like all of them." He looked up sharply, but there was no judgement on Illya's face. "And I believe she was someone worth liking."

"She was," he agreed, past the lump in his throat. "I wish I could have saved her. I saw the van before the attack. I wasn't fast enough."

"Hmm." Illya took the glass out of his hand and laid it to the side. "This was not your fault, my friend. But wouldn't you like to find out whose fault it was?"

"Vengeance?" His smile was crooked. "Is that what you have to offer?"

"Justice," Illya corrected. "Going after the bad guys remains within our job description."

"True." At least that was something he could do. Something better than wallowing in this guilt and grief. "Alright, I have a few ideas where we can start - "

" - _you_ will start in the hospital until the doctors say you may leave," Illya interrupted firmly. "At that point you can join my investigation."

"Oh, really?" He let out a soft huff. "I don't remember the part where you're in charge, pal."

The banter felt awkward. Forced. And judging by the look in Illya's eyes, it sounded it too, but still his partner answered in a perfect imitation of calm irritation. "As I presume you do not wish Mr Waverly questioning our prolonged absence, you need my cooperation."

He very much doubted that Illya would give him up no matter what he did. But he also knew better than to push. "Alright the hospital it is then. Just try not to get in trouble without me."

"No promises," Illya said levelly, standing and offering Napoleon a hand up – which was more appreciated than he wanted to admit. He had to admit, he probably needed some more medical attention.

Maria was gone, and that was one more weight dragging on his soul.

Illya gripped his hand a moment longer than was strictly necessary. "I will never forgive you for making me play the optimist – but we can make a difference in this world, Napoleon. We do."

He took a deep breath. "I know."


End file.
